Tearing The Veil
by LameBicycle98
Summary: 7th year. Those at Hogwarts decide to try something risky to save one of their fallen. HGSS, HPDM, Not HBP compliant
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is going to be a SS/HG and HP/DM fic. It is co-written by myself and a friend. We are taking a few liberties, one of them being that HBP never happened as we're both really fond of Dumbledore being alive and Snape continuing to teach at Hogwarts.

Please enjoy and if you have the time leave a review to tell us what you liked and what you didn't.

Standard Disclaimor: We own nothing. Which is just as well, we suppose.

* * *

**Tearing the Veil**

**Chapter 1**

In Scotland, in the fall, the students of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry were  
waking up to the early morning sun shining through the windows. Such resplendence,  
which was just the sort of things poets have fits of ecstasy over, was welcomed with  
groans of derision or, in the cases of a few bitter older years, swearing and half-hearted  
rude hand gestures. Alas, Hogwarts wasn't known for its dawn-inspired wizarding poetry.

Most of the students were trying to block out the sun to the best of their ability. All, that is,  
except for one Hermione Granger. The Head Girl was always up early. Her internal alarm  
clock was set for 5:30 am. It didn't much bother her and it meant that she, the eternal  
bookworm, could get in a few more hours of what she felt was necessary studying. Luckily  
at this hour the library was open. Madam Pince , the baleful and ever-watchful librarian,  
was also accustomed to keeping early hours.

Occasionally Hermione would also see the dark countenance of Professor Snape  
wandering through the restricted section. The first time he had gone out of his way to  
frighten her, as far as she could tell, for his own twisted amusement. She had been deep  
into reading Positively Powerful Potions Level 7 when he crept up behind her. His voice,  
barely above a whisper and laced with silk, wished her a caustic good morning.

She hadn't seen his lips twitch when she had almost fallen out of her chair. By the time  
she had turned to face him his face was schooled blank but for the slightest hint of  
irritation. He had proceeded to fire off questions concerning her sleeping habits, her  
obsessive Gryffindor need to be the very best to validate her existence, and even  
managed a jab at her hair which she had forgotten to brush that morning.

"You have read the myth of Perseus, haven't you, Ms. Granger?" he had drawled with a  
sneer.

She had. And no, she didn't think she looked as bad as Medusa, even in the morning,  
thank you very much.

Lately if Professor Snape saw her in the library in the morning he would ignore her for the  
most part. If it was absolutely necessary, such as when they passed one another in the  
stacks, he would give her an almost unperceptive nod by way of greeting and then either  
go to another row or leave the library entirely. Hermione didn't really mind in either case.  
She liked the library when it was absolutely silent. It gave her time to study without being  
interrupted.

Hermione took a furtive look around after wishing a good morning to Madam Pince. As  
there seemed to be no one around, especially those with billowing black robes, she  
decided it was safe enough to settle down at a table and get started re-reading her 7th  
year Transfiguration book. Though she had read it from cover to cover over the summer,  
twice, she still felt apprehensive about the test Professor McGonnagal was going to give  
later that afternoon. Even though Ron, Harry, and even Neville has assured her, repeatedly, that she would do fine. They then went on to ask that, since she was going to  
do fine, wouldn't it be awful nice of her to help them with their own studies? She was the  
only one who could transform a cup into a gnome with the abilities to speak English. Harry  
had come close, once, but his talked with a New York accent that had astounded everyone,  
most of all Harry, who had never been to the States.

As for their request, Hermione had rolled her eyes and told them that if they really wanted  
to get tutored she would be willing and available in the early mornings in the library. She  
had been joking, of course, knowing perfectly well that none of her friends would be  
caught dead getting up early for something as asinine to them as homework (not half as  
important as Quidditch, mate) and fully intended to make up elaborate timetables which  
would label when they were to come to her for help and when they were to work on their  
own to achieve maximum results.

Therefore, when a hand fell to lightly rest on her shoulder she almost had a repeat of the  
falling-out-of-the-library-chair incident. Catching herself, though not before a small gasp  
escaped her, she turned, fully expecting to see the dark eyes of her potions master. In  
almost the same moment her brain logically dismissed the idea. He had never touched her  
outside of third year when he had held her back by the arms when she had tried to run  
after Harry and Professor Lupin when he had, unfortunately for them all, turned into a  
werewolf.

"Ron!" she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes. "What are you doing here? Honestly, you  
almost scared me to death."

Ron blushed. Hermione had noticed that he was doing that more and more often.  
Whenever he did, his cheeks and the tip of his nose would almost match his hair. "Sorry,"  
he grinned sheepishly. He did look contrite enough, so Hermione gave him a smile to show  
that no, she wasn't too mad.

Ron continued on while sitting down across from her, holding up his Transfiguration book  
like a shield. "You told us you were going to tutor us in the mornings, right?"

"I didn't think anyone was going to take me up on the offer," Hermione said while leaning  
back in her chair. Ron yawned without bothering to cover his mouth.

"Oy, nor did I, to tell you the truth. I don't want my mum to kill me, though. Last time on  
the transfiguration test I scored, well, lower than she would have wanted."

"That's what that Howler was about," Hermione recalled the red, sputtering envelope that  
had sailed in front of a horrified looking Ron a few weeks beforehand. Knowing perfectly  
well what it was and enjoying her eardrums enough not to subject them to such a tumult,  
she had excused herself from the Great Hall and proceeded to miss the excitement that  
was watching one's peer getting yelled at by their mother.  
"Worst one I ever had," said Ron with wide, respectful eyes. "Mum should go into  
business, writing Howlers for other parents."

"It could be a lucrative career," mused Hermione. "It's gotten you to study. Who knows  
what it will do to the even slightly motivated students," she giggled at his narrowed eyes.

"Bugger off," he rolled his eyes. "No, wait, don't. I need to copy your notes first. And no  
saying no. After that insult you owe me that much." Apparently Hermione agreed because  
she handed over her parchment with her neat, purple- ink notes without any protest.

They worked in silence for some time. Hermione lifted her wand and was painstakingly  
going over the swish-flick-swish technique that would be needed to turn a couch into a  
hippogriff. She was so intent that she didn't hear what Ron had said and asked him to  
repeat it.

"I said, haven't you noticed that Harry has been acting odd recently?" Ron said quietly,  
giving a quick glance around to make sure nobody was listening in.

"He's still grieving about Siri.. erm, Snuffles," replied Hermione, dropping her book and  
looking pained. She too was still a bit shocked at his death. It was then that this war really  
struck at home for the entire golden trio. Sure, Cedric's death fourth year had been  
terrible, but they all hadn't been there to witness it.

"Yeah, I know. I get that. But he hasn't cried. Not even at night. He just looks angry all  
the time. Any little thing sets him off. Yesterday we were playing chess," he lowered his  
voice so that Hermione had to lean in to hear him "and I beat him. Not by much, mind you.  
He got so upset he knocked the board over and stormed off."

Hermione sighed. "There's not much to do. We've offered to talk to him. I think Professor  
Dumbledore tried to talk to him as well, though you know how well that went. Harry is  
wary of him now. But it's hard Ron. He doesn't want to open up to us. He loses everything  
he cares about and he has so much pressure on him."

"Exactly," said Ron, brightening. Hermione instantly looked suspicious. "I have the most  
brilliant idea on how to cheer him up."

"This better not involve sneaking off to Hogsmeade for a few shots of firewhiskey like  
your last brilliant idea," muttered Hermione.

"Actually..."

"Ron!"

"C'mon Hermione," he looked at her with a grave expression. "I think it's just what he  
needs. Remember what a good time we all had last year? And with the invisibility cloak we're sure to not get caught."

"No." Hermione crossed her arms in a gesture of brisk finality. Ron sighed.

"Fine, but when he explodes in your face next I am going to hex you so that you have the  
words 'I told you so' dancing across your head for the rest of the year."

* * *

Harry James Potter sat staring up at the ceiling of his large four poster. He had been  
laying for a good half an hour, staring at the ceiling and managing to keep his mind utterly  
blank. No words or images existed, just the hazy blankness that occurs when there is far  
too much information. The fact that Professor Snape would have been proud (not that he  
would have shown it) if Harry could have managed this in his fifth year was not lost on the  
boy. But Harry didn't think about that, no, nothing relating to his fifth year at Hogwarts. 

Too painful. Too many failures lumped together in a year, each one having a single thing  
in common: Harry had had a hand in their creation.

He rubbed his scar mostly out of habit. It hadn't hurt him for a bit. If Voldemort was up to  
something he was doing it with grand emotional stability, surprisingly really for a psychotic  
megalomaniac.

Harry swung his legs over the edge of his bed and helped himself up. He made a quick  
trip to the loo and made his daily preparations. It was all mechanical to him. Open water,  
stand under water, wash here there and here, dry off and put on the school robes. He  
didn't even bother with his hair. His father hadn't been able to do anything about it. Sirius  
had said so. Sirius had...

He shuddered for a moment.

Harry walked out into the common room just in time to see Ron and Hermione walk in  
with books under both their arms. They called out a greeting to him in a tone that he had  
mentally labeled their "safe" voices. Safe in that it was so carefully neutral so as not to  
upset him that it irrationally made him want to scream at them.

"Where were you two?" he asked instead. He could play the neutral game, too.

"At the library, studying," said Hermione, setting her books down on one of the tables.

Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron.

"Oy! I can study when I have to," said the redhead with a slight blush.  
"Sure," said Harry, nobody's fool.

"Are you prepared for the transfiguration exam, Harry?" asked Hermione.

"I guess," he mumbled. Hermione narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

"I'm too knackered to stand around anymore. Let's get some breakfast," said Ron while  
rubbing his stomach. The others agreed and soon they were walking down to the Great  
Hall. Ron and Harry were mildly talking about Quidditch as Hermione trailed behind, giving  
each of the portraits a friendly greeting as she passed.

"If I had more time I'd like to research the full sentiency of the paintings," said Hermione.  
Harry and Ron exchanged looks.

"Well, if you didn't spend all your waking hours studying," began Ron with a roll of his  
eyes. "You could pass your NEWTS today!"

"But I wouldn't do well on them," said Hermione with an air of impatience. "Well, I  
wouldn't do as well as I want to."

Harry scratched his head. "I thought the paintings were as intelligent as the people who  
they were painted after. They seem to be that way in Dumbledore's office." He  
remembered Phineas Nigellus well.

"Perhaps it's just my muggle upbringing," began Hermione as she tapped her lower lip  
with her index finger. "But it's odd to me that magic can capture a person's essence and  
have it preserved indefinitely on a canvas. It's like some sort of vampirism. Ron, what do  
you think?"

"What? Me? Well... I don't know. I haven't really looked into it. It's just one of those things  
that is. Like exploding snap or," he snapped his fingers impatiently. " Harry, help me out  
here."

"Owls with built in GPS?"

"Yeah, " nodded Ron before his face fell. "What's GPS?"

"I'll explain it to you later, mate."

"Boys!" said Hermione, throwing her hands up. The said males grinned at one another.  
Since fourth year, after they had gotten back together from that unpleasant fight, one of  
their favorite new pastimes had been to see how much they could rile up Hermione without  
actually causing her to boil over. Being the only girl in the trio it was inevitable that the  
boys wouldn't completely grow out of the adolescent stage where picking on girls was a  
favored pastime; she, unfortunately, was their favorite prey. So they indulged from time to time. Almost every day. They even admitted that they didn't really like talking about  
Quidditch that much; they only did it to get the obscene pleasure of watching Hermione roll  
her eyes and walk away to put her face in a book.

They walked on in companionable silence. Hermione was starting to believe that Ron was  
just over reacting this morning. After all, Harry was still grieving. For the most part he was  
perfectly all right. He just needed some time alone.

"Well well well, if it isn't scarface, the mudblood and the weasel. To what do I owe this  
pleasure?"

Hermione cringed upon hearing the sarcastic drawl of their school nemesis, Draco Malfoy.  
It was bad enough that he was Head Boy, probably a Death Eater (there was ample  
evidence defending their suspicion), and an enormous git, but he also managed to have  
the worst timing possible. Him and his two idiot goons who were currently flanking him on  
either side.

Thankfully Hermione and Draco didn't have to share a common room like Head Girls and  
Boys had to in years previous. When she had asked Professor McGonnagal about this  
(having read in Hogwarts: A History that it was a common procedure until the 60's) the  
aged professor had given her a sharp look.

"Let's just say that there was too much playing of horizontal limbo during the years of  
love, Ms. Granger."

Hermione had blushed a deep red. She had always wanted to be talked to by her  
professors as an equal. She just hadn't been expecting it then, not with Professor  
McGonnagal and certainly not expecting her to be so candid. Mildly unnerving, though it  
wasn't because she limited such activities to adolescents, no, but Professor McGonagall  
was her instructor and, well…older.

Needless to say, she had thus been granted a reprieve from awkward moments of sharing  
a common room and common bathroom with the pale-faced self proclaimed sex-god of  
Slytherin. How he had managed to become the Head Boy in the first place had confused  
her. There were many theories on the matter. Most of them were from Ron and thus  
outrageous or involved the entire Malfoy clan either buying or sleeping their way into it.  
Regardless of the fact that Lucius Malfoy happened to be rotting away in Azkaban with only  
those drab Dementors for moonlight kisses, Ron was still adamant that something under  
the table was conspiring. Dumbledore had told Hermione in private that it was to help  
Inter-House Unity. She passed that information along to her best friends. They hadn't  
believed her. She hadn't expected them to.

"Shut up, Ferret," said Ron, already turning red.

"Or what?" Draco's grey eyes sized up the second youngest Weasley. Apparently not finding anything of interest, he moved onto Harry. Harry, with his narrowed eyes and  
clenched hands.

"Looking a little tense there, Potter. Maybe you should try some relaxing exercises. I hear  
mediation and a massage go a long way. Maybe you can even get the mudblood to do it  
for free," he smiled in satisfaction as Crabbe and Goyle barked idiotic laughter.

"You're a real git," said Hermione, putting a calming hand on Ron's shoulder. He looked  
like steam was about to come out of his ears.

"A git? Is that the best you can come up with? Such astounding wit from the golden trio,  
the magnificent heroes of the wizarding world. Is that what you're going to say when you  
go up against the Dark Lord, Potter?" Draco glared at Harry who was looking daggers back  
at him.

Draco moved forward and Harry matched his steps. The others were soon forgotten, as  
the two boys looked each other up and down. Harry fiddled with his wand, considering  
pulling it out.

"Are you going to tell him that he was a real git for killing mommy and daddy, boy-hero?  
Think he'll give you the chance to sob and whine before he crucio's you into oblivion?  
Maybe he can tell you who you best sound like when screaming: your mommy or your  
daddy," Draco was whispering now so that his words only reached Harry's ears.

"Shut up, Malfoy. One more word and I swear I'll-"

"-you'll what? Take out that big wand of yours and hex me? Think I'm scared of a half-  
bloods magic show? I've seen them bigger and much more astounding, Potter," his grey  
eyes shined, daring him to be the first one to cast. The smirk double dared him.

"I wouldn't waste a perfectly good hex on you, Ferret," Harry's grin was disturbing.  
Sadistic, twisted. Fifth year with that _thing_ inside his head all over again. "After all," his  
voice dropped to a smug whisper "I wouldn't want so share a cell with your father. How is  
he? Does he like Azkaban? I hear they have a great summer program. The Dementors put  
on a play. Kiss Me Kate, maybe?"

Draco's smirk faltered for a second. His fists trembled.

"I heard they all begged, Potter."

"What?"

"You heard me. They all begged. For mercy. Ridiculous. Your mudblood mother and your  
blood traitor father. I heard even that your godfather begged. How pathetic is that  
anyway? Death by drapery-"  
Draco was cut off when Harry, apparently taking a page out of Hermione's book, drove his  
clenched fist smack into the pale features of the Head Boy.

What erupted was pandemonium. Draco and Harry both fell to the floor in a flurry of  
punches and kicks. Each one seemed to be intent on causing the other damage, regardless  
of how uncivilized and immature the acts were. At one point they had even degenerated  
into pulling one another's hair. The four sidekicks were either too shocked or too unwilling  
to get involved.

When it was eventually broken up by none other than a peeved Argus Filch who took  
away twenty points from each house, and assured them that he was immediately going to  
the Headmaster with this; he was certain he would be allowed to break out the  
thumbscrews for the particular occasion. He gleefully charged off, Mrs. Norris under the  
crook of his arm, to the headmasters office.

The remaining teenagers all staggered into the Great Hall. Hermione and Ron both kept to  
Harry's side closely. They asked him what Draco had said but he refused to repeat it. He  
was sporting a swollen eye that was probably going to bruise. His hair looked even more  
disheveled than usual. It also looked, much to Ron's discomfort, that Harry was holding  
back tears. The following meal was eaten in silence.

When the three got up to leave Hermione shoved a note into Ron's hand. She raised her  
eyebrows at him and then shot a glance at Harry. Ron read the note out of Harry's view.

_I think you were right this morning. How does the Hog's Head sound for tonight?_

Ron quirked a satisfied smirk, silently cheering himself on in his head for the small victory.

* * *

"Lemon drop?" 

"No."

Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, ignored his colleague's sour disposition and  
popped one of the tangy candies into his mouth. A look of pleasure passed through his  
eyes, earning an even deeper scowl from the potions master.

"Argus was here earlier. It appears he wants to reinstate the chains and thumbscrews  
again."

"Really, Albus," drawled Severus Snape, "I don't think the board of directors would be  
pleased to hear that you have a closet bdsm fanatic roaming the same halls as our gifted  
youth."

"We'll just keep that to ourselves, won't we? It seems Argus had to break up yet another  
encounter between Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Albus sighed. "I suppose you shouldn't be. It's not good, Severus, to have the children  
fighting amongst themselves. There's enough horror out there beyond these walls. This  
should be a sanctuary for them."

"A sanctuary?" Severus raised a delicate brow. "For whom? The entire system is built on  
antagonism and a foolish patriotism for four individuals whom the students never stay  
awake long enough in their history classes to actually learn about. Not to mention the  
house point system which only solidifies the us versus them mentality."

"This from the man who has taken away more house points from Gryffindor, alone, than  
all the others professors combined."

Severus smirked. "I am but a product of a failed system."

"So you are," said Albus quietly. His gaze, without that patented twinkle, was cunning and  
remorseful. Severus mentally flinched under such a gaze though his face remained the  
mask.

Albus changed the subject. "How is the wolfsbane potion coming along, Severus?"

"The base is finished. It's under a stasis spell currently. At midnight I should be able to  
add the wolfsbane. It should be ready in a week's time. I assume Professor Lupin," he  
didn't bother covering the annoyance in his voice, drawing out the vowels in his mouth,  
"will be able to hold out until then?"

"I'm sure he will manage. He is deeply grateful for all your efforts, Severus."

If it was possible, Snape managed to deepen his scowl. Dumbledore personally believed  
that looking like that all the time was probably rather painful. He kept that commentary to  
himself, however. He knew that bringing back Remus Lupin as the defense teacher was  
just adding to the general angst of Hogwarts. However, after the death of Sirius Black,  
Dumbledore felt it necessary to put Harry's loved ones closer to the boy. Remus, who was  
also still grieving, was also in need of companionship. The fact that Severus was around at  
the school to brew his desperately needed potion for free was an added bonus.

"Of course, Headmaster."

"And your research," changing the subject, though if it was possible, this one was even  
more distasteful to the potions master than helping the penniless werewolves of the world, "have you gotten farther along?"

Severus waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "I can only do so much with the books  
here. Even my own collection doesn't cover much besides some theories that never  
panned out. I am meeting our informant tonight. She might have some useful information."  
He paused, seemed to be considering his next words.

"I have a theory of my own. Without proper research I won't know if it is worth perusing.  
Unfortunately I do not have the time to dedicate to this as I wish to."

"I know I ask much of you, Severus," Albus was cut off when Severus raised a hand,  
askance to stop. Albus rarely stopped when asked, however. "I think it might be beneficial  
for you to take on an apprentice, Severus. An extra set of hands in the laboratory, a fresh  
mind to go over the material."

"Out of the question," Severus already had visions of some clumsy oaf, a Hagrid or worse,  
Tonks, coming into his neat and orderly laboratory and making an utter beyond repair  
mess of everything.

"You can't brew both the wolfsbane potion and this new one. Not with your regular  
teaching duties and your summons to his side," Albus looked straight into Severus' eyes,  
but, as usual, seeing no reaction, he pressed on. "You're overworked as is."

"I'll manage. I always have before."

"Matters were not as pressing as before. No, Severus, I insist on this."

"And who shall my unwitting assistant be? Longbottom, perhaps? Might as well blow up the  
entire school while we're on the subject of asinine ideas," Severus muttered.

"Perhaps not Mr. Longbottom. A student wouldn't be a bad idea, however. You have one  
week, Severus, to choose someone. Or I will choose for you."

"Of course, Pater," his sarcastic voice rang true. Albus only smiled in response.

"Now, as to the matter of Mr. Malfoy..."

* * *

Hermione sighed. Perhaps this hadn't been the most brilliant of her ideas. No, this was  
Ron's idea. Which is why it was failing miserably. Why on earth had she agreed to this,  
again? Oh, right. Desperation. Goodness. 

Well, to be perfectly fair, it wasn't failing. The trio had managed to get out of the castle perfectly intact and without detection, thank you Invisibility Cloak and Marauders' Map. They had also made their way to Hogsmeade safely and were now sitting in the drab Hogs Head. Hermione was their "designated walker" as she wasn't partaking of any alcoholic beverage. Her duty, therefore, was to sit around watching her two best friends make complete and utter asses of themselves and then leading them back, safely, to their dormitories.

"Remember that time, do you?" Ron was red-faced again, swinging his arm over an  
equally red-in-the-face Harry, whose unfocused eyes seemed to be having trouble  
differentiating his best friend from the wall.

"What time, eh?" he slurred, then hiccupped.

"The time with that giant spider? Oy! Scary thing that was. But we beat it Harry, you and  
me!" he raised a toast and managed to get most of the liquid into his mouth.

"I think we ran like girls, Ron," Harry hiccupped again.

Well, thought Hermione, at least he's smiling. She'd hate it if he was a maudlin drunk.

"Shhh!" Ron put his fingers to his lips and looked straight at Hermione, then dropped his  
voice to what he imagined was a whisper. "There's one of 'em right over there."

"That's Hermione, Ron," said Harry, also whispered before breaking off into a giggle.

"Hermione is a girl," said Ron with an air of the scholarly professor.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Glad to see you finally noticed, Ron." She then sighed. A half  
an hour longer, and then she was dragging their too-happy-for-reality wizarding butts  
home.

* * *

Severus Snape was currently lounging on one of the lumpy couches in the upstairs gallery  
of the Hogs Head. Being on relatively good terms with the proprietor he was encouraged to  
use the rooms for whatever it is he wished. As it was he was using it as the informal  
meeting place between himself, spy master of the order, and another spy, a young girl  
named Delilah. 

"I do hope your name isn't a self fulfilling prophecy," he had said to her when they had  
first met.

"Not for you," she had said, shooting him a quirky smile.

Delilah was a spy for the order, though very few people knew of her existence. Part of the  
brilliance of Voldemort was that he kept his Inner circle and Outer circle in complete ignorance to the others plans. Severus, far as he could tell, was the only spy in the Inner  
circle. He was sure there were some in the Outer circle; Dumbledore had told him some of  
their names. Delilah, however, was not a part of the Outer Circle. She wasn't even a Death  
Eater. She was playing one of the oldest games of the world. She sold her body for the  
information she needed. Far as Severus could tell she got disturbingly good results.

Delilah was a taller woman, though not quite as tall as Severus himself. She had a fine  
figure, large lips, hips, and eyes that could turn from that of a doe to that of a temptress  
within a mere second. She could hold herself high one moment and be completely beaten  
the next, depending on what was desired from her.

What Severus noticed, and was captivated by, was her hair. Brown, bushy, it reminded  
him of her hair. Delilah had a calm pose, a contrived patience that lulled men into  
confidence; Severus knew well enough to be wary, but that calming disposition, so  
contrary to the chit's, reminded him more of _her_. It was the act of comparison, and with a  
bit of pride he thought of the brightness that resided in both of their eyes. He realized,  
with a bit of annoyance, that by coming to this woman he was transferring his, albeit  
wrong, feelings for the chit onto a prostitute. He was using her. He might have felt some  
remorse for it, but Delilah admitted that she was using him as well.

"To everyone else it's for the Order," she said, stretching languidly across the bed. "This,  
however, is plain fucking. The way it was intended. Eye for an eye and all that."

Eye for an eye, indeed.

Delilah was sitting close to Severus. She was handing him papers about the potion he was  
trying to create. Things she had heard in bed from questioning the other Death Eaters.  
Things she had found on her own.

"I hope this helps. I can't understand much of it," she shrugged.

"Your specialty wasn't in potions, I take it." A small smile graced his face; not an insult,  
but a reminder; how many times did that little girl raise her hand and torment him? A  
reminder: not everyone has such an immense interest in this field. The smile grew; then  
he remained tight-lipped.

"Charms. Magical and not so," she smiled at him. He was pouring over the papers.  
"I'll have to look at these more closely tonight. I will be in contact, of course."

She put her hand on his arm when he made to leave. "A half an hour?"

Severus looked at her, or, more specifically, looked at her hair, thought of the girl.

_She isn't going to be mine_, he thought without any real bitterness. He had resigned  
himself to his fate on the matter almost as quickly as the attraction had become known and accepted.

"Might as well," he said, both to Delilah and to himself.

If Delilah found it odd that he kept his eye closed and one hand locked within her long  
hair she didn't comment upon it.

* * *

About forty minutes after the fact, Hermione was trying to get her friends up and out of  
the Hogs Head. She felt very positive of the effort she had made so far. She had paid the  
tab and managed to get Ron out the door. Harry was being a bit of a problem as he  
seemed to have grown some sort of maternal affection towards his chair and wasn't letting  
it go. Hermione assured Harry that it would be alright, that you have to let chairs be sat on  
by someone else so they can really grow and make a good name for themselves, and that  
he would have to get over his empty nest syndrome sometime. 

When she had finally managed to get both Harry and Ron outside they had hugged like  
two war survivors finally making it back safely into one another's arms. The fact that they  
started singing an Irish drinking song, loudly, made Hermione want to scream in  
frustration. They kept singing this refrain, something about chowder, though certainly by  
the end of the trip Hermione could recite the blasted thing. Ron's blubbering sounded  
authentically Irish in his current state, and Harry decided to answer Ron's bellowing with  
the next verse.

"Who threw overalls in Mrs. Murrrrphy's chowder?"

"Who threw overalls in Mrs. Murphy's chowder?  
Nobody spoke, so they shouted all the louder," Harry barely kept the time, but his rosy  
cheeks were all true Irish.  
"'Tis an Irish trick that's true, and I can lick the mick who threw the overalls in Mrs.  
Murphy's chowder."

Giggles, real giggles followed. Keeping a cool head, however, Hermione finally shushed them while trying to quietly usher them back to Hogwarts.

"I do believe it is past curfew," said a silky voice from behind them. Hermione froze. She  
knew that voice. After having listened for a good six years to its cutting sibilance she was  
not too happy to find it here where discretion was preferred.

Please don't let it be him, she thought. Anyone but him.

She turned around and - how could it be anyone else? - came face to face with her dreaded potions master. Severus Snape was towering over her with an unreadable mix of  
emotions on his face. She could tell he was angry but there was also a certain sick glee  
about the predicament the three Gryffindors found themselves in.

Hermione just knew he was going to take away a thousand and ten house points. And  
probably assign them detention with Filch.

"Sir, please, I can explain," began Hermione hurriedly. She looked up into his black eyes  
and faltered. He was watching her with his arms crossed across his chest and one delicate  
eyebrow raised. She tried thinking quickly of a lie but none that would seem reasonable  
came to mind. The truth probably wouldn't do much good either.

"Well?" barked Snape, causing Hermione to jump.

"We were, that is to say, out..."

"Yes, I have yet to lose my eyesight, Ms. Granger. What I am curious to know is why the  
three prized Gryffindors are out in Hogsmeade, on a school night, absolutely reeking of  
firewhiskey."

Ron, oh with terrible timing as always, piped up. "That's what we've been drinking," he  
said quite seriously before turning to Harry. "Oy, the bat of the dungeons is here, Harry.  
Think he'll fly away if I shoot light at him?"

"Ron!" Hermione cried, scandalized.

"That's not a bat," Harry said prosaically. "That's Snape." He paused, thinking about it. "I  
don't like him," he said after a moment's contemplation before going off into giggles again.

"Witless wonders," muttered Severus before waving a hand over the two boys. He had  
cast a silencing charm. Harry and Ron soon realized their predicament when no sounds  
escaped their mouths. Harry, quick thinking Harry, started miming himself trapped in a box  
like he had seen a professional do once. Ron, confused as to how Harry had gotten into an  
invisible box, rushed into his friend in an attempt to free him. Arms and legs later, Ron was  
on the ground staring at the night sky like it was the most wonderful thing in the world,  
while Harry continued to look at Snape.

Snape gazed onto the countenance of Harry Potter who, balance something of a problem  
suddenly, fell forward onto the ground. Seeming to find comfort in the grass and twigs and  
dirt of the earth mother, the boy closed his eyes and curled himself into a ball. With a sigh  
of pleasure he was asleep. Had he been lucid he might have found it strange that the first  
time he had been able to easily fall asleep this year was under the watchful eye of the man  
he hated almost as much as he hated Voldemort.

"And here," drawled Snape, looking distastefully down upon the sleeping figure, "is the child on whose shoulders rest the fate of the world. Perhaps we should sell tickets."

"Sir, I know this looks really bad-"

"-looks are often deceiving, Ms. Granger. However, I think that today they are exactly as  
they seem. You three, for whatever idiotic reason, decided to sneak off to have a few  
drinks, regardless of the extensive danger you could have run into. Not that danger, the  
life or death variety, is any sort of a drawback for the golden trio."

"Professor-"

Snape held up a hand and silenced her.

"It will be fifty points from Gryffindor for your nocturnal excursions." Hermione sputtered.  
"Each." Now she was outraged. She was probably going to do something stupid, like say  
what was on her mind, but one look from her dour professor silenced her. At least they  
weren't getting detention.

"I assume you know _mobilicorpus_, Ms. Granger?" she nodded. "Good, then fetch Mr.  
Weasley." He was already levitating Harry off the ground. Then, turning with his quick  
strides, he was off towards Hogwarts.

Hermione had to take two steps for every one of his to keep up with him. She didn't dare  
ask him to slow down, however.

When they reached the front entrance of Hogwarts Snape entrusted the boys to house  
elves and told them to make sure they got some sober up potion into their system when  
they woke up. Hermione, taking that as her cue to leave, was discreetly making her way  
towards the moving staircases.

"Ms. Granger," she stopped. Oh no, he was going to take more house points.

"It occurs to me that for whatever reason you were named Head Girl. It wouldn't do to  
have the regular students punished the same way that a prefect or a head would be. After  
all, you should be held up to higher expectations in a position of power."

_You're one to talk_, thought Hermione bitterly. She could just see the house points going  
into the negatives for the next five years. Ye gods, what did that man have against her?

"Detention, Ms. Granger. After dinner tonight. I expect you to be on time. Is that clear?"  
He looked at her with that infernal eyebrow raised.

"Yes sir," said Hermione. Damn. She would get detention. Harry and Ron were so dead in  
the morning.  
Bemoaning her innocent fate, Hermione Granger clamored up the stairs and into her  
private room. Try as she might she couldn't resist the slamming of her door.

* * *

Note: We were told the Irish drinking song we used is, indeed, real. We may have been lied to. 


	2. Chapter 2

a/n: Thank you for your patience. We were really slow putting this together. Alas! We feel mighty bad about it. Hopefully this will be to your liking. And as always, please kindly leave a review and tell us what you liked and what you didnt.

-------------------------

"No, really, you were really that drunk."

"But no…I couldn't – I mean, you wouldn't _let me_ do that…w-would you?"

Exasperation. Hermione shook her head. "It wasn't that I _let_ you do it, as you so delicately transfer the blame to _me,_ but that you did it regardless of all of my insisting! And now it is _I _who have the detention this evening."

Harry had a bit of decency to look regretful, but the smile that was slowly winning the struggle appeared fully on his face. A real smile. "We sang the whole way, eh?"

A nice way of trying to change the subject, but Ron wouldn't let it go. He looked truly frightful, in the oh-please-god-tell-me-it-isn't-so face. "I called him a bat to his face? He's going to roast me next time in class. Tell Mum and Dad I love them, and Harry, you can have my collection of posters from the Chudley Cannons. It's all over."

Hermione snorted. "As if you have any real reason to complain. He was relatively lenient on you both, though the fifty points apiece was rather drastic." Ron looked around down the length of the table. Some of the Gryffindors had been quite apprehensive about the sudden deduction of housepoints. After discovering that the Golden Trio had lost them to none other than Snape, any anger was quickly transferred to the "greasy git" and a chanting of "The Dungeon Bat Lives" quickly followed. Relatively convenient; the house was once again reunited in a common enemy they could understand.

Hermione shifted her eyes and crinkled her nose. "Need I remind you that I'm the one that has to see him tonight? He's going to have me do something truly horrible, I'm sure." Thoughts of Care of Magical Creatures loomed in Hermione's mind, and she imagined a fate worse than ten of Hagrid's classes back-to-back. It wasn't that Hagrid intentionally made things difficult; he was just innocently reckless. Hermione let out a long breath, mentally preparing herself for her personal Hell that evening. It wasn't that Hermione ever held much against Professor Snape; she did her fair share of defending him (though not completely whole-heartedly) when Harry and Ron decided to have a verbal bash fest. She wasn't blind; there was blatant favoritism with the Head of Slytherin Professor, but part of her admired the man. He was one of the few who she continuously tried to impress, answered all of his questions and knew that he only expected the best. He was enigmatic, leading a double life, and though she did not know why the Headmaster confided in and trusted the man, she knew Snape was somehow worthy.

But…then there was this. She glowered and quickly looked back up at Harry, who listened to Ron discuss some maneuver that his new favorite quidditch player had performed in the last game, last nights excursion discarded for safer topics. Ever since Hermione had "been with" Victor Krum, Ron showed a great disdain for the person and his once-idol, though he finally decided to call a truce on his somewhat sudden abhorrence with no explanation as to the cause or any other reason, and found it easy once again to occasionally mention the Bulgarian team.

Hermione sighed, one large relaxing breath meant to calm her anxious mind. A giant gulp of pumpkin juice, with its subtle spices and general sweetness helped cement in her mind the pleasant faÁade that would help her survive her encounter with the Professor. She had most of the afternoon to complete any essays and side-projects she had neglected the previous evening for the fire-whiskey excursion. She mentally compiled a list of the tasks she planned on doing, and decided it was best to leave then.

She cleared her throat.

"Well, I'm off to the library. Don't get into any trouble." Hermione scowled, but the boys knew it was good naturedly. She had enough on her mind.

"Yeah, be sure not to skip supper, you tend to do that when you're in that zone of yours." Harry quirked an eyebrow at the attention the redhead seemed to have been giving the bushy-haired brunette, but remained silent. Ron tried to look sheepish, slightly colored, and then tore into a breakfast muffin rather violently, as if asserting his right to worry and that it was normal. Hermione missed the exchange as she quickly gathered her rather large book bag and headed off for a long day of work.

"We might as well be going as well. I know Hermione will yell at us later on if I don't at least read whatever work I have to do for Monday. Blimey, I still can't believe it. I was serious about the posters, mate, they're yours."

Harry snorted and stood up, prepared to also sort through his planner, and probably let his mind wander as he was wont to do as of late. He had also been rather disappointed; he had hoped that Malfoy would have sported a nice bruise after their brief encounter the previous evening, but he had been quickly mended and marred-free. Harry's brief victory had been clouded over by the sudden loss of points, but he still remembered. And he knew well enough that he'd have to be careful the next few days. Malfoy would want blood for the small tango of fists and face. It _had_ been bloody brilliant. If it were in his character, he'd rub his hands and cackle, but that wasn't his nature. He'd sit there and plot, and revel in the possibility of besting Malfoy. It had its certain joy.

"Look on the bright side, I'm sure Snape will appreciate he's finally been honored in Gryffindor with his own theme song. It's also inter-house unity and all," Harry said as he waved his hand in dismissal.

"Inter-house unity, that's a load of bullocks and you know it. And that was love written all over your blast on the white-washed weasel?"

"Pure and unadulterated adoration. Petrified Pe-tai," Harry nodded to the portrait of the fat lady, Hermione's earlier statement about their possible sentient-status had seemed too well thought out to be completely discarded. Better to be safe than sorry. Harry stepped through the proffered doorway after Ron with every intention of getting at least one assignment completed.

-------------------------

Severus Snape had not slept well.

No, after collecting his papers and having the good luck bestowed upon him to have the Golden Trio literally falling in his lap, it still had not been what he had envisioned as the close to a rather productive evening. His lips curved. He did have the pleasure of subtracting a tremendous amount of points, and even seeing those normally soft brown eyes fire up with indignation. It was extraordinary how emotions were so easily read on her face, the idiosyncratic gestures and folds in the face that accompanied each one. It was a task to carefully know how to hide the bits of character that seeped through in daily conversation, and even in thought, but he had mastered it. It was a novelty to see them so plainly on the chit's face, an effort well rewarded at every encounter, he mused. And there was this evening to play a now favorite game of his, recently discovered in the library that one morning when she flew from her chair. It had been how those muggles say: priceless.

His dark leather armchair lightly echoed his pleasure; most of the furniture in Snape's quarters bespoke a man with simple yet expensive taste. The room was lightly furnished, yet one would not call the room sparse. The man's personal taste and dark persona were reflected in every corner of the room: the heavy velvet drapes; the antique desk of dark mahogany that surprisingly had ornate etchings throughout the legs and sides; the large bookcases that encased old yet well cared for tomes, each handwritten they seemed. This was a man that appreciated details, the specifics, and he breathed for the small incongruences that others generally missed. Despite the glum surroundings that were expected from the somber and acrid man, his rooms were well-lit, the velvet drapes merely framing the soft and translucent curtains that delicately covered the expansive windows by the dark bookcases. Beside the window, framed by the mid-afternoon light, were a pair of dark leather armchairs that framed an extensive fireplace and a small coffee table. Severus' favorite retreat. These chairs were home to Severus' every mood, confidants and companions; they were the gentle touches that uplifted him after his exhausting schedule and the demands of the outside world. The oriental rug that laced the framework of his inner-sanctuary added tints of red and gold to the atmosphere. Whoever said that Severus Snape was incapable of accepting colours? He just was very particular, that was the difference.

Severus mutely glared at his fireplace, his ease at wandless magic being one of his talents discovered early in life. It was convenient, and had saved him quite a few times. He reckoned that it would continue to hold so and would play a role in the upcoming battle. Guaranteed. Though, his expertise was something he had closely guarded, as well as his ability in occlumency. There were some things better left unsaid, and many things that should never, ever be revealed if one wished to live. Once the fire was lit, and kindled a bit, the room became warmer by several degrees, a comforting sensation to the thin and lean man. True, it was harder to find any food particularly appetizing as of late, the nightly excursions and pleasant after-tremors from the Dark Lord's gifts of _crucio_ had erased any and all reasons to eat, but Severus had a naturally taught and sinuous body that was accustomed to acutely feeling any drafts of coldness. It was a luxury to feel the cold of day pressed tightly up against him; at least he still lived.

Which, oddly enough, reminded him of Albus' request. He frowned. To chose among his classes – a student – to assist him in his work was an absurd request. He could work alone, it was his solace to come into his rooms and perform any research in his private labs. He covetously eyed his lab from the fireplace and took a seat in his favorite chair; no, he did not agree with the bumbling fool, but he had to concede. Perhaps Albus really knew best. Severus rolled his eyes. Albus was no fool, but he was meddling and manipulative, a well-kept secret from the rest of the wizarding world. Oh, Severus would play his role of the genteel and obedient son, knowing full well that the headmaster had valid reasons to his request, but that did not mean he could not feel restricted and suffocated. Severus liked his space, his solitary lifestyle. No, whomever he chose would not enter this space. Work would be restricted to the dungeons area late at night, damned be the child he happens to delegate this task.

Severus couldn't help but smile at the sudden thought. It would be brilliant, a genius idea that would not only allow him to pull one over Albus but would also allow him to receive personal satisfaction. The chit. His little tormentor. She had the potential and aptitude, despite Severus' original belief that the girl merely studied so hard because she could not comprehend any of the material. No, the encyclopedic answers were a part of a comprehensive package – a part to the whole. Hermione Granger could recall the information and later apply it – her information gathering abilities were not two-dimensional and applicable only when providing cut and dry answers. Her potions exemplified the knowledge and apprehension of techniques that Severus himself had mastered when young. She could apply the theory she had gathered and received in classes. She was not a sex-less child, but that was secondary knowledge that had to be quickly forgotten. But he could train her and watch her, mold her in a way that no other could. She would be his in that way, and he could easily bring about any reaction from her, he knew this to be true. Severus lazily brushed his hand through his long hair, the tendrils falling to frame his face just seconds afterward. He was allowed this personal pleasure after giving his life of service, if only for a little while. He had no illusions of surviving the war, not with the multiple roles the man had, but he could scheme just a bit longer.

This would keep Albus quiet and the girl near. He would have chosen Draco had it not been for the already complicated situation: Lucius Malfoy. One word in itself bespoke the hazardous relationship and role that Draco was to have in life. It was not certain with whom his sympathies lied, but his blood ties and responsibilities spoke volumes. Everyone, Severus included, held their breaths to see whom Draco would choose to serve. It could never be simple. Filial obligations ordered him to serve the Dark Lord, which seemed the obvious option, but there was still a shred of hope. Draco Malfoy did not revel in the monstrous gore his father preferred, his taunts and pranks were sugar canes and lollipops in comparison. No, Draco did not have the urge to watch a person bleed, to humiliate perhaps, in the case of Harry Potter, but Severus could forgive that. He narrowed his eyes, and brought his fingertips together in contemplation. He could overlook Draco's harassment of Harry because it was returned and neither were out-numbered. And it was the pale boy's only outlet: he had become a silent shade of his pale self ever since his father's confinement, and with all the expectations surrounding him, there was only so much a person could take. The fire crackled softly as in agreement. Severus would watch Draco and quietly drop hints and encouragement, but the boy had to think for himself. It was not too late, but he could not be his apprentice.

Severus breathed slowly and mentally flinched – he still had to look through the remainder of Delilah's papers concerning his potion. There were but a few hours remaining before he had his detention to attend; it was best if he made some preliminary notes concerning what she had heard and compiling a list of what he was already certain. Perhaps some of the information overlapped or would need to be discarded. He had asked Delilah to get anything, and to not leave out a phrase or other meaningless factoid she happened to come across. It was an arms race, only this time men weren't fighting over whose metaphorical phallus was larger. Lives were at stake and had been lost over the past two decades. There was no time to lose.

--------------------------

Hermione stretched in the wooden chair, her back complaining from the hours of straining to stay straight while reading volumes of tomes to complete the essays that were due later in the week. Her potions essay on the properties of burdock, caraway, coltsfoot, and feverfew, how they behaved in conjunction with one another was proving a much more difficult task. Yes, it was easy enough to say that they all served to help calm and heal, but what were the best combinations in which potions to maximize their effects? And how on earth to limit what she wrote? Since the previous evening and the encounter with Professor Snape, Hermione felt that it was now of greater importance to write an excellent – nay, perfect – essay. She was sure the Professor detested her more than ever. It was bad enough that she had befriended Harry Potter, was a muggle, and ceaselessly horded copious amounts of information regarding all subjects, but now she had the awful detention to contest with and who on earth knew what sorts of debasement she'd endure then. He could easily do that to her, read her, make her flush and wish to run from his gaze. It wasn't fair that he had that advantage and that he used it whenever possible. There should be some rule against that.

She slowly collected the heavy volumes and began to place them in their homes, knowing full well that dinner was soon approaching and the boys would be worried if she stayed ensconced in here forever. Although she certainly wouldn't mind it, she knew better; detention would most likely take the entire night (if _he _had his way, it would) and it was wise to at least have something in her stomach. That, and Ron or Harry would come chasing after her in here and drag her to eat. Not to say that she didn't enjoy eating, on the contrary, it was a nice pastime, but with work, reading, and her other greater interests…sometimes she became sidetracked and would miss a meal or two. Sometimes those two were so maternal, Hermione thought, rolled her eyes, but softly smiled. It was nice to have people care. She blew a small tendril of a curl out of her eye before heaving the leather books onto a shelf and carefully putting them back alphabetically. Madame Pince would never let her return if she ever mistreated her treasures; just last week the small-boned librarian nearly ripped her own hair out and screeched at the top of her lungs when a Hufflepuff third year dropped a rather old book after tripping over someone's book bag. It was something Hermione dared not wish to see again.

Having finished cleaning up, and nodding to Madame Pince, Hermione calmly walked over to the Great Hall, wishing for some warm tea. She was nervous and was trying desperately to relax. No wonder it had taken her twice as long to fill the four-foot parchment that they had been assigned on Friday. This was killing her.

"'ey Hermione," Ron smiled at her and then continued to select pieces of roasted chicken to place on his plate. Harry glanced up, nodded, and then bit into a biscuit he had plunged into a gravy sauce. No, he did not make it look graceful; it was the epitome of boy-eating. Hermione shook her head and sat down, took her small cup and filled it with the cream of broccoli soup that thankfully the elves had prepared that evening.

"Ron, will you pass me the tea?"

"Nervous, are ya then? I knew you would be, I mean I would be, too. Oh, but you'll be proud of us: Harry and I managed to do our divination homework."

"We killed each other off, but not before Ron lost his manhood in a spaghetti throwing contest and I became a quadriplegic after doing a nose-dive from the astronomy tower. Apparently, I couldn't cause my own demise; a gnome sneezed and caused me to become so frightened that I had a heart attack at the age of twenty-two," Harry deadpanned. Hermione's eyebrows narrowed as she softly blew on her warm soup.

"I thought you said you actually _did_ the work. You two just made up outrageous stories that aren't at all plausible."

"We've discovered, oh dearest Hermione, with _much_ research, that the most unbelievable tales are the ones Trelawny respects and actually believes. It's not like you take the class or her seriously," Harry reminded her with a pointed look.

She wiggled in her chair after taking a couple of teaspoons in of the peppered-green milky broth. "It's not that I respect her or the subject, but to blatantly lie…well…you know I don't like that. And besides, you don't want to get into any more trouble. We've lost enough points as it is, and I'm bound to lose more tonight."

Ron looked up in between mouthfuls of the moist roasted chicken, "Oa noa yoo araan'!"

Harry locked gazes with Hermione, and assumed his protective role, somewhat patronizing if anyone asked Hermione.

"You need to stay calm and not say anything that would get you into more trouble. He's waiting for it and you know it." Hermione sighed, the paranoia had set in. Sometimes Harry could be as dubious of others as much as Moody Alaster had been after the incident in their fourth year.

"Yes, yes, constant vigilance and what have you. I'm not a child; I know well enough. Blasted, I can't eat anything and it's already nearly time for me to meet Professor Snape down in the dungeons," Hermione said while standing up and nearly spilling her soup.

"I-I'll go with you," Ron quickly offered, standing as well and patting his pants clean of food debris. "You know, for moral support and all. And those dungeons are mighty chilly this time of year."

Harry made it a point to find his dinner plate the most fascinating specimen. "Yeah, good idea, Ron. I'll catch up with you later. I'm still working on my food." And as proof he started to work on a golden brown chicken leg.

"Oh, okay. Thanks, Ron." Hermione didn't see the sense in any company, but she didn't object. Besides, it seemed like Harry wanted to be alone. Ron and Hermione shuffled out, the redhead trying to cheer up the worried bushy-haired brunette.

Harry didn't mind the fact that both of them were gone, though he questioned his lank companion's behavior. Hermione was not one to notice the most obvious of human emotions, given what bit she allowed herself to experience with Viktor Krum. Ron was being obvious, putting himself out on a limb, so to speak, but Hermione was blind, deaf, and mute. She did not see, she did not have ears to hear, and perhaps lacked the words…Harry could see her with her mouth agape if Ron ever confronted her with his feelings. If he gave them a release. Hermione would be dumbstruck – Harry was not at all sure if he wanted to be present for that. It made him feel nauseous to think that anything else could occur. Too real. Too much drama. It would only serve to separate the trio further, he later reminded himself, and how they had been drifting

Action. That was right, he had forgotten all about it. Action had a pale outline, wisps of shockingly white-blonde hair, and eyes that were crystalline, poignant, that were jarring. The incarnation of evil? Hah, green and grey were teasing one another all throughout the dinner. Grey was chasing green and green had ignored; only now that green was found alone, did he feel he might as well oblige and return the probing, questioning glares that were aimed his way. There, Malfoy, I have acknowledged you, although you no longer have that sweet bruise, any evidence of my besting you. I'm always fighting, always fighting against you, against me, against _him_, why won't you just go away, why can't you just go away-

The banter is starting again, and Harry knows it's best to make a departure then. He salutes Malfoy by cocking his eyebrows up once, a way of indicating that he's had his fun, the pleasantries are over, it's time for the curtain to close. They were going to play this game on his terms, Harry told himself.

Harry unceremoniously drops his fork into his plate (perhaps he should take art, the fine shade of pale cerise he made with the potatoes and tomato sauce from the pasta are worthy of being used in some sunset portrait), and heads for the great doors of the Great Hall.

"'ey, Harry, you hardly ate, where ya goin' off to?" Seamus Finnigan asked, all smiles.

"I'm not much hungry, and I thought I might start our transfiguration homework, seeing as I probably didn't do too well on that exam." He didn't. He probably just passed because of Hermione's not all too subtle hints to study the material.

"It weren't all that bad, Harry. Yuh just need a pattern to follow. I used quidditch. It was phenomenal. I think it might have worked, really."

"You used quidditch as a means of remembering transfiguration material?" Harry looked incredulous; it could solve all his problems. Well, if only he could use that for Potions, then he'd never have to worry again.

"Yeah, but I think I confused two of the plays, mate," Seamus bunch up his brows, similar to how he would bunch up the consonants when speaking. "I'll teach you my methods once I head up."

Harry nodded, heading out the doors, a bit tired of the cacophony, the conversation: he needed to walk. His steps only seemed to echo back to him as he walked through the passageways; they would have seemed like catacombs had it not been for the fact that his childhood memories resided in the curves and cuts on the antiquated stonewalls.

But home had eyes and ears at every post, and they all reached the ears of one long-bearded old man, whose ignorance and child-like innocence were but a faÁade – Harry was sure – and who had most of the answers to Harry's problems yet never supplied but an enigmatic response. Harry hated not knowing, being the child and yet the savior, jerked from right to left, with enough scars already on his body that could not compare to the indelible scars that remained in his mind and psyche: He was truly old, and had a right to know.

He did not feel the eyes and the itch at the back of his neck until he stopped thinking; no, the gaze from behind, and the silent, muffled steps due to some charm were registered and ceased his thoughts, and he was all but ready when the hand rested on his shoulder and pushed him up against the wall.

Harry smirked, much to the dismay of the shard-like, crystalline orbs that demanded his attention.

"You know, Malfoy, it's not like I couldn't tell someone was sneaking up on me. Even with your _'silencio pasos dos'_ charm, I could feel you right behind me."

Slight arches convened in anger, after a spill of embarrassment; but Harry had to admit, Draco could school his features over very quickly. It must be a perk of being a Slytherin, after all, or perhaps a necessity.

"To think, you've survived this long is laughable." Draco pushed Harry's shoulder back, Harry slightly meeting the wall for the second time that evening. "I didn't come here for small chit-chatting, Potter; I've better things to do. And might I add, I rather not sully my reputation with being caught seen around with you. But I demand payback for that little _scene_."

"Ah, so that's why you chose a secluded hallway to molest me? Seriously, Malfoy, bugger off. I don't care for your little trysts. I'm tired and this isn't enjoyable."

Malfoy scoffed. "As if I, Potter, would even desire such a reckless, lanky thing as yourself. Don't flatter yourself or think I'd ever turn a head for you; I spoke of punishment, not fulfilling some sordid fantasy you might have about me." He inspected his nails, then looked up. "I have noticed you've been spacey lately, but I hardly doubted you'd grant your thoughts in my direction. I should have known you were a poof. Is it some complex, perhaps you actually desire the Dark Lord, Harry? Maybe," and he licked his lips while he said it, inching over toward Harry, his right arm supporting him against the wall, "you are the lost little boy, who hates the attention, and is still waiting for someone to hold him while he's all alone.

"Does he keep you up at night?" Draco whispered next to his ear. Harry's breath hitched, due more to the warm breath on his ear, the topic of conversation mismatching the intimacy. No, Harry blinked; it was perfect: what better way to discuss his fears and reality than with the dangerous tension of an enemy's breath playing softly in his ear.

"I heard you've screamed at night, waking up all sweaty – never you mind how I know. I've got connections everywhere, Potter, you forget that." Footsteps and idle chatter, giggling, were making their way over to their hallway. Both boys turned their heads momentarily, as if that was the cue for things to cease.

"Well, I would have promised to tuck you into bed, but that really isn't my sort of thing. Ask the weasel or the mop of brown hair to do you that favor. Wouldn't mommy be proud of her little, _brave_" – he sneered – "boy."

Harry pushed him away, wiping away the feeling of Malfoy on his skin, so close. "Although I'm sure you've thought of me in a bed, countless times, I've to disappoint you, Malfoy. Best to stay to members within your own house. Besides, I don't want whatever you've been catching; I hear you're quite the whore."

"An experienced man is never a whore; he is an adept lover. Apparently, you've no time or breeding to know the difference. You do realize this isn't over," Draco challenged calmly as the young Ravenclaw girls passed by, smiling at one of brunettes that coyly batted her eyelashes in his direction.

"Of course it isn't. I never expected it to be," Harry pivoted quickly, not bothering to see how the interchange between the females and the ferret would finish. He didn't care; it didn't matter, and it wasn't a part of his life. Superfluous details of another's existence that would merely be a hindrance in the end. Malfoy was a distraction to the ever-present "impending doom," as Harry mockingly referred to his expected tango with Voldemort. It was one of the weaknesses he allowed himself.

Harry made his way up the enchanted staircase (which for once, he added, led him directly to the fat lady's portrait without causing him to find some other path), recited the password off his numb lips, and made his way to his quarters. He shifted off his heavy, dark robes, the white undershirt and exposed his chest to the incandescent candle-lit room. No one was present yet, they were still roaming about downstairs, just as he wanted it. He climbed into the quilted blankets, swished his wand and muttered a spell to close his drapes on the four-poster bed. As in after thought, he added the _'Silencio'_ and screamed. Screamed because it was the most basic of things children did to remind themselves they existed. Harry screamed because it was the most beautiful sound he could make. And because he wanted to remember that he still breathed.

---------------------------------

"Can I carry your books for you, Hermione?" asked Ron, who was making it a point not to look at her. Unfortunately his nonchalant act wasn't working too well as he failed to notice that Hermione was, for maybe the first time in her life, not carrying any books. She was in the middle of putting her long, thick hair up into a messy ponytail. A few strands of hair managed to fall down around her face and she was glaring at them as if they were an affront to decent humans everywhere.

"Uh, no, Ron. I'm fine."

They walked for a bit more in silence. When the reached the stairs that led down to the dungeons Ron graciously allowed Hermione to go first. One, because it was gentlemanly, and two because it gave him a view of her posterior while she was walking. "I'm really sorry about last night," he began. Hermione raised a hand to silence him, however.

"Think nothing of it. I went along with it just as much as anyone else and I should have known better."

"It doesn't seem fair that you have to serve detention, though."

"Yes, you're right. But we managed to complete our primary objective so it wasn't a total waste."

"Primary objective?"

"Yeah, we made Harry happy." She then frowned and gave Ron a look. "Although you'd be hard-pressed to convince me that it wasn't two thirds an excuse for you two to go drinking . . . again."

"You wound me, Hermione."

She laughed.

They stopped in front of the potions classroom. Ron cleared his throat and pointedly looked somewhere that wasn't Hermione's face.

"So, if you want, you know," he took a breath. "I can wait for you until the detention is over."

"Are you sure? It's probably going to take forever."

"I'll escort you back to Gryffindor tower, if you like." The boy was so hopeful looking that Hermione was almost ready to believe that he meant something more than just escorting her back to Gryffindor tower tonight, but that he would do it every night and maybe then carry her over the threshold of some white-picket fenced cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade with two point five children and she would have a brilliant career in charms and he would play Quidditch for the Chudley Cannons or, preferably, a team that won every once in awhile.

There was the boy with red hair offering his arm, strong and youthful, to the brown, bushy haired smart girl. She tentatively raised her hand to take his in her own, the joining of their two hands would mean so very much more - the beginning, perhaps, of something wonderful.

That is if someone didn't have the worst timing ever.

"Cavorting in the hallways when you have detention, Miss Granger? Hardly behavior worthy of the Head Girl."

Worst. Timing. Ever.

That silky, smooth voice which was the secret guilty pleasure to an oddly large number of seventh year girls was just the thing to cool the timid amour of Ronald Weasley. He still held his hand out to Hermione, but it had gone limp and unattractive from fear of his dour professor. Hermione, on the other hand, quickly retracted her hand and turned a pale shade of pink like she had been caught with her hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. Ron gave her a pained look, like he was being rejected, and Hermione was almost quick enough to tell him that she didn't mean it like that. Professor Snape was still quicker, though.

"Return to your tower, Mr. Weasley. I will make sure Miss Granger makes it back to her dorm room in relative safety."

Ron seemed to deflate then, and even more so when Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and said, "It's okay, I'll be fine." With a small nod the boy was off, brushing past Professor Snape with more ire than was absolutely necessary.

Without further ado Professor Snape gallantly held the door open to the potions classroom where Hermione, silently fuming, walked ahead of him. Snape closed the door with only a minor show of his dramatic flair.

She stood before his desk with her face carefully blank. It was so painstakingly thought out that Snape saw right through it and knew she was fuming. Her jawbone was deliciously tense and her eyes couldn't help but hold the fire of her suppressed rage. Severus swept his long robes up and strode to his desk before casually leaning against it.

"Usually, Miss Granger, I would be assigning my detention students the chore of cleaning the cauldrons by hand or, even more odious, alphabetizing my storeroom." Hermione looked a bit downcast at this. If this is what he normally subjected the detention students to she had no doubt that he had saved something disastrously terrible for her. Probably had planned the whole thing years in advance and had been waiting for her to step out of line just so that he could subject her to it.

"As it is I have something a little different in mind for you." Yep, there it was. Something different in Snape-tongue meant something arduous, perilous, and probably smelly.

Severus gave Hermione a sharp look and was pleased to see that she was in a state of dread. He supposed it was somewhat sadistic of him, but after that little scene with Weasley in the hallway he couldn't help but make her squirm a bit.

"Miss Granger, when one adds three-fourths of bicorn horn, the yolk of an ouroboros egg, the petals of a moonlilly and the juice of a pomegranate what would one be making?" He was secretly pleased that her eyes were slowly lighting up at the chance to prove herself to him academically.

"If it was brewed on the night of the full moon near midnight you would have the base for the Wolfsbane Potion, but it would still need to simmer for a few days before the next steps could be taken."

Silently he was delighted. His eyebrow arched disdainfully. "And then?"

He listened to her ramble off the next steps for the Wolfsbane Potion. It was a lot like listening to a talking encyclopedia that had learned to enunciate.

"You will be completing those steps tonight, Miss Granger. I have other matters that require my attention. You are capable, I presume?" He knew he need not have asked, the girl was more than capable in his opinion. She seemed to agree with him because her eyes got really large and she nodded fractionally, shocked that he was giving her both a chance to prove herself and that she wouldn't be forced to clean anything.

An hour later found Hermione slowly stirring the Wolfsbane Potion. Severus had been pouring over the papers Delilah had given him. He pinched the bridge of his nose when he came to a particularly irritating part. Sighing softly, he leaned back into his large, leather, wing-backed chair. This was going to be a problem.

Rather than dwelling on it he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to question Albus about what he knew in the morning. That was a conversation he was not looking forward to, if only because one of his pet peeves had slowly, over the years, become anyone offering him sweets of any sort. He blamed Albus in particular for that one.

His gaze surreptitiously traveled over to the girl whose full attention was on the potion before her. Severus felt an uncomfortable pressure on his chest which he could not quite identify as pain or pleasure, or perhaps a mixture of both, as he took in the girls rolled up sleeves, the messy hair which was falling forward into her face or the way that she bit her lower lip as she concentrated on making sure her rotations were exactly ten seconds apart.

When Severus had come across Hermione and Weasley in the hallway he had quickly cast a disillusionment charm on himself. Years as a schoolteacher had not put him above the likes of spying on the student body. It was in parcicular with those two because he felt he somehow had a right when it came to Hermione, if only because Weasley was going to make her late for his detention. When Weasley had reached his hand out to the girl he had felt jealously, white hot and freezing at once, course through him. He had managed to keep himself from hexing the boy and branding his mark on the girl, which he really had the urge to do, and quickly sent the boy packing instead.

His eyes half closed in pleasure as he watched her carefully tuck loose strands of hair behind her ears with a small growl of impatience. Ah, what he could make her into if she allowed him to. She had all the makings of a great Potions Mistress. She was patient, calculating, creative and, though he would never admit this aloud as a positive character trait, brave when it was called for bravery. He thought of her under him as an apprentice, imagining making potions with her, tedious burn salve and bone replenishing potions, or creating new and dangerous brews with her. His imagination turned the potions classroom into his well-furnished sitting room where they would sit taking their tea and discussing the latest article in Ars Alchemica. Then, of course, they would move to his four poster bed where . . .

He shook his head of the thought. Not only was it highly inappropriate but he was vaguely aware that if the girl had any idea what he was thinking she would probably run from the school screaming.

He turned back to his work.

It was another hour later when Hermione was putting a stasis spell on the Wolfsbane. She was particularly pleased with her work. It was the pale grey it should be at this stage. It needed to sit for another night before the actual wolfsbane weed, a highly reactive plant, could be placed into the base.

"This work is adequate, Miss Granger," came the voice of Severus Snape from behind her. She jumped a little in surprise, she hadn't heard him coming up behind her, and was once again too late to see him hide his smile at her stupor.

Though why she should feel such a rush of pleasure when he, albeit grudging and subtle, should comment in a way that can only be described as not negative about her potion was truly lost on her.

"Thank you, Professor. Will that be all for tonight?" she asked him hopefully. If she got back to her room now she would still have about a half an hour for studying before she had to go to sleep.

"That will be all, Miss Granger. I will escort you back to your room."

"No, really, Professor, that's alright. I can manage on my own," she said quickly, jumping off the stool and beginning to roll down her sleeves. Professor Snape narrowed his eyes.

"I insist upon it, Miss Granger. Merlin forbid I have to listen to Mr. Weasley give his attempt at a verbal tirade if you so happen to trip and scratch a knee."

Before she could help it a giggle escaped her lips. "I suppose, when you put it that way," she said while still laughing. Professor Snape strode ahead of her and held open the door. She passed through with nod of thanks.

They walked in silence , both pleased for different reasons. Hermione considered herself mighty lucky that she got out of doing anything truly terrifying. She was also indescribably pleased that Snape had, in his very understated way, approved of her potion and thus by default, her as well. She knew it was a problem that she craved the approval of everyone. Her mother had given her numerous muggle self-help books on the subject of low-self esteem which she had made a point not to read. She didn't think she had a problem. After all, she knew she was the brightest witch of her age. Practically everyone admitted as such.

She didn't want everyone's approval, but she did desire Professor Snapes if only because he was the only one who wouldn't readily supply an endless string of compliments.

They stopped in front of the portrait in front of her dorm room. It was a painting of a young girl playing with a doll. She perked her head up and smiled at Hermione. When she noticed her dour escort, she put the doll in front of her face like a shield.

Hermione turned to her professor. "Thank you for walking me, sir."

"It was my pleasure, Miss Granger." With a stately bow that was distinctly un-modern, Professor Snape turned on heel and walked off back to his dungeons.

Hermione watched him go with a raised eyebrow. She was relatively pleased, if only a little confused, as to the way things had gone tonight. Making the potion had been pretty fun, though. It was more challenging than anything they had been doing in the classroom this year.

She entered her room with a decided grin on her face. Wait until Ron and Harry hear about this one. She bet they didn't get the chance to make potions and had gotten detentions that involved cleaning the hundreds of cauldrons.


	3. Chapter 3

We own nothing. Nothing at all.

Tearing the Veil

Chapter 3

"He bloody is driving me bloody crazy with all these bloody detentions!" cried Hermione Granger as she threw her arms up in the air in a perfect image of exasperation.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were sitting on a bench in one of the many courtyards of Hogwarts castle. They were watching their best friend with very serious appearances; that is, as serious as two hormonal-driven boys can get while licking a unicorn-horn pop. Hermione had been pacing and half shouting her rant for the past ten minutes. These days it was a common exchange. Harry and Ron would talk about their day in the most blase way while Hermione would quickly jump in with the latest of what the giant bat of the dungeons had done this time.

"Do you think she said bloody enough?" asked Weasley of Potter.

"Nah, she could have thrown it in a few more times," stated Harry with a solemn nod.

If was unclear if Hermione heard them or not though she did suddenly cross her arms over her chest and go into a chant of "Bloody bloody bloody bloody bloody."

"It is sort of funny, though," said Harry. Hermione whipped around, put her hands on her hips and gave him a quailing glare.

"What. Is. Funny. Pray. Tell."

Harry awkwardly cleared his throat. "Well, you see Hermione, from a purely objective point of view where I distance myself from the fact that Snape is a Slytherin and I'm a Gryffindor and you're my best friend and he's, well, an arrogant, greasy git - it was really quite comical when he gave you that detention for sneezing."

Both Hermione and Ron were giving Harry incredulous looks.

"What?" he asked.

"Blimey, Harry, when did you get so smart?" asked Ron, his unicorn pop hanging limply in his hand.

Harry looked to Hermione for reassurance but one look at her face showed that she too felt the same bewilderment.

"I read, you know," he ground out while rolling his eyes and crossing his arms irritably. "Sometimes."

Unfortunately this grand revelation did nothing to distract Hermione from the problem at hand. "He has it out for me, I just know it. He really, really hates me. And if I keep getting these

detentions I'm never going to be able to study properly and if I don't study I won't do well on my NEWTS and if I don't do well on my NEWTS I won't get a good job and then I'm going to have to go into some small, lucrative career breeding kneazles and be some creepy kneazle lady and people will pass me on the streets and say 'there goes that Hermione Granger - she could have really been something had she not gotten so damn many detentions which utterly ruined her life!'" She quickly breathed in a breath of air and exhaled. Her face was red from the long sentence.

"So," said Harry. "Do you feel better now?"

"A bit," she said. "I think I just needed to get that out of my system."

"I like kneazles," said Ron. "I'd buy your kneazles, Hermione."

And Hermione Granger let out a terrible wail and buried her face in her hands.

What the trio did not notice was that a pair of periwinkle, twinkling eyes had witnessed the entire conversation. And just like the stars in the heavens, the eyes twinked out as they went to pursue a new prey. Specifically, one who crept in the dark dungeons of the castle.

* * *

"Might I have a word, Severus?" asked Dumbledore as he gallantly swept into Severus' office and took a seatin a comfortable leather winged back chair. Severus irritably looked up from the essays he was grading. Fourth years. Still as stupid as third years but even worse because their hormones were starting to act up. It was the only time he actually agreed with Filch who had at one time showed him a marvelous muggle invention called a cattle prod.

Oh - the possibilities.

"I suppose," growled Severus. "As I lack choice in the matter."

"Quite right. Lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked, holding out the yellow candies in a small bag.

"Only if it's poisoned and will get me out of whatever inane task you are going to thrust upon me."

"Why Severus, that's the closest you've come to saying yes."

Severus rolled his eyes and leaned back in chair. His long fingers came up and massaged his temples slowly.

"Get on with it, headmaster. I haven't all day to listen to your incessant prattle about candy."

"Ah yes," said Dumbledore as that cunning look entered his eye. Severus was delightfully good at reading people and he knew that when Dumbledore's eyes started twinkling like christmas lights the old man was plotting something sinister. Severus was instantly on the defensive.

"You don't have time for me because you are busy tonight?" His voice dripped shrewd honey. "Perhaps too busy with having unruly students serve detentions?"

To his credit Severus didn't even flinch. "You know how they are, Albus," he drawled. "The students must be shown a firm hand, especially in the potions classroom. I personally have no qualms with them blowing themselves up though you and the board of governors, not to mention the parents, seem to disagree with me."

"Of course, Severus. Sneezing shouldn't be tolerated."

Severus clenched his jaw. He might have been found out but he was still a Slytherin. They admit to nothing. "The potion she was working on was very volatile. Any outside moisture could have caused an explosion."

"I daresay I have always found Miss Grangers judgement to be very good. I don't believe she would have even unintentionally made a mistake of such enormous proportions."

Damn. That. Twinkle.

Even a Slytherin knows when to admit defeat. They just don't admit it very loudly. Severus kept quiet and just stared at Dumbledore with an expression that clearly said, _Well? What of it?_

"If you wanted her as your apprentice so badly, Severus, you really ought to have just asked her. I believe she would be overjoyed at the offer."

"I don't want her as my apprentice. She's an insufferable little know-it-all who would only annoy me until I poisoned both of us to end my misery."

Dumbledore coughed into his hand. "Sometimes I wonder about your over-eagerness to poison people."

"I wonder at your dolling out candy to children like those actors in muggle safety- prevention videos."

And thus, they were at a standstill. However, Dumbledore was the one paying the salary and like in the muggle world, he who has the money at the end of the game wins.

"Ask her to be your apprentice, Severus. And no more detentions. The poor girl is a nervous wreck." Dumbledore stood up fluidly, which for a man of his age was quite the feat. He smiled down kindly upon Severus, who felt very much like he was a wayward child being reprimanded by his benevolent father.

"If you don't," said Dumbledore as he opened the door to leave, "I'm more than certain Miss Lovegood will be willing to pick up some extra credit in your class."

With the threat of the mentally unstable blond terror parading around his precious potions lab set firmly in the potions master's mind, Dumbledore popped another lemon candy in his mouth and merrily went about his way.

* * *

She was tight, she was panting, and sweating, and her skin was reaching out and accepting his sweat, the little droplets as they coupled there on his – now rumpled – bed sheets. Draco shrugged, though somewhat grunted, thrusting into Pansy, trying to solely concentrate on the skin beneath his, the irregular breaths, the intimacy…

No, there wasn't any. This was purely physical, not in the special cutesy-I-love-you-way. This was fun, a sport, a conjoining of two accepting individuals trying to get off. It was bluntly sex.

"Draaacc..oooo…" She broke his reverie. He went faster. It was the sole indication, that cry, of a need to be filled, no pun intended. Pansy came from the same background as Draco, the stiff aristocratic minority that hailed its power and affluence from their sacrosanct sanguinity. He was superior, he was male, he was virile.

Dear gods, he was trapped. He was a puppet trapped in some side-show display that demanded his every attention and obedience. "You are to serve our Lord," Lucius' simple words the very threat of all existence.

"Agh. Draco, Draco, Draco. You're being too rough. Get off." Draco arched his eyebrow while he allowed Pansy to turn over onto her back. The lights in his room were off, but a bit of muted sunlight came through the drapes, casting a grey light onto Pansy's skin and his. It looked like she was glowing from within, with bits of perspiration acting as glitter on a nymph's arms and legs.

He was out of breath. "Are we done then?" He wanted it to be over. He kept thinking, and it had nothing to do with Pansy or fucking. He didn't like to equate those two things together anymore. He was bored.

"No, we are not done yet. I am not done. What time is it?" She always moved from topic to topic, jumping, trying to fill in her void.

"Sometime close to three, from what I last recall."

"Ugh, I have to go, I don't have time for this, but that doesn't mean you don't owe me. I expect full recompense tonight for your…inability to perform." She smirked, her full nude form climbing up from its flat position to one up close to his. She pressed her thin, pale lips against his cheek, eyes open with glee, and made contact with his side.

"My inability had nothing to do with it. You called out my name. I was doing my job." He ran his hand through his hair. He needed to concentrate, he was slipping. No, he just didn't want her there. "Don't you have to be going?"

"Yes, yes, no need to kick me out. Blaise won't mind waiting. He knows I have a defunct internal clock. And don't look at me like that. Just because you are in some wretched mood doesn't mean you're going to take it out on me." Pansy slipped her skirt and robes on, quickly stopping in front of one of Draco's mirrors to check her appearance and smooth her curls. She took a little ringlet and wrapped it around her finger, releasing it so that it would spring up and bounce back into the helix form.

"Blaise and I will be back around five or so; no need to wait up for us. I'll probably be a tad bit late to dinner since I have some things to take care of."

"Things?" He tried to act interested. This was taking too much control. He was getting a headache.

"Mm, yes," she applied lip-gloss and smacked her lips together. "Some girl commented negatively on my sense of style, just girl business." Pansy Parkinson, her tongue-in-cheek-comment really meant the girl was going to be hexed to the point that she could never show her face around. Well, not for a week or so. Was this what made Pansy such a delight to be around? But it was fading. It was growing old.

"I'll see you later, behave, and don't get caught frisking some twelve year old behind a statue," she winked, and waved, then was gone.

"Cute." Draco was never into pedophilia. He never dared touch the first years at this age. Pansy was just being passive-aggressive. Sometimes she couldn't handle the fact that Draco went wherever he pleased, with whomever. It didn't matter to him if the person was male or female; he was just enjoying the full course that life had to offer, the analogy he usually fell into when describing his tastes. He found everything palatable. Pansy sometimes would screw up her face whenever a comment was made concerning Draco's status as the self-proclaimed Slytherin god of sex, but Blaise would try and draw her attention to other matters to cool the rift. And there was a rift indeed now blatantly apparent between the two.

Draco pushed himself off of his very disheveled bed. He shook his head, waved his wand and it was quickly all in order. Contrary to popular belief, the Slytherin prince could make his bed and always had. A man must always learn to do things on his own; one never allowed another to do something that one himself could do. It had to do with pride, and my weren't the Malfoys' proud. Of course, Lucius was proud, of course he'd demand the best, since his interpretation of the epitome of the elite resided in his own character.

Which brought Draco's attention to the rumpled correspondence that was on his lacquered desk. Oh Father, Draco laughed in his head, how I respect and promise to uphold ye traditions. He snorted. It was ridiculous, but necessary. There was a complete and total separation between propagators and progeny. Such social rigidity existed that neither the former understood or spoke with the latter; the former could recall such a distance between their own creators, but alas, they lacked the tools to scale the breach that now consumed their world.

The letter was plain, Lucius' delicately simple cursive writing detailing how quiet the house had grown since Draco's departure (what lies, the manor was normally silent, each member of the family ensconced in his region of the establishment), and subtlety changed from the atmosphere of life, of the daily politics at work, to the underwritten cause of the epistle: Draco's coming of age.

Lucius deemed it important enough to ah, notify Draco that soon he would be betrothed to one of the fine pure-blood wizarding families. There would be little time for his experimenting (sweetly phrased) or at least, his operations would need to be more…covert. Surreptitiously he could continue his rendezvous with whomever he pleased, but the first year of marriage should be a happy and a fairy-tale filled one. Draco could imagine his father scoffing at this – indeed, Draco was as well, but more for the fact that his father expected them to be so intimately familiar with one another.

The prospect of marriage was only part of the problem. The Dark Mark was another issue that Lucius was hinting at when mentioning "coming of age events." The entire correspondence reeked of Draco "preparing for his life as an adult," and "assuming responsibilities that demanded the utmost respect and complete abeyance in all other matters." It was engrossing at first to imagine the lengths his father went to try and disguise his letter, and then neglected all pretense when he threatened Draco with "failure is not an option within the Malfoy realm." Since when did any Malfoy have a realm of his own? It was best not to directly question his father. The past summer had quickly, under Lucius' tutelage, taught Draco that rebuttals are not acceptable, nor was direct eye contact. There were no scars, maybe two or three faint ones, but all so thin due to Lucius' mastery of his fine art. The Dark Lord kept him close for many a reasons, none too pretty.

At the end was his simple dismissal, and order to send greetings to Pansy Parkison. That did it. He grabbed and rolled the parchment into a small ball and smacked it hard against the wall.

I. Hate. Your. Control.

It was a repetition of the previous evening. His hand had ached, but he punched the wall again. And again. And he would have done it again, if it weren't for the little dot of red he saw on the white wall the second time.

Draco turned around and walked into the bathroom, nude, and stared in the mirror. He walked up close to see his own eyes, the little details that are obscured with distance, then walked back to scrutinize himself.

His blonde hair was in his face, falling and framing his cheekbones and allowing his grey eyes to poke through occasionally. The collar bone protruded lightly, and was encased in his skin and muscle, which abounded everywhere. He was sleek, toned, power edging its way though it glided across Draco. He stopped and stared, not seeing his body as an extension of whomever he claimed to be but a separate entity. Is this what they see when they look at me? Hold me? Want me? Was that line of his hip as wonderful as that fifth year boy had proclaimed as he breathily had taken all of Draco? Was it as glorious as that girl who scratched his back when they were in the abandoned transfiguration classroom, and moaned and moaned for more? Ah, it couldn't be, because green eyes would bore into him and forget the body, the scent of man and purchased fine herbs and just stare, stare because he could tell that there might be a mind behind the wealthy façade – or was that just Draco romanticizing all of it?

Hah, gods no. It was a load of rubbish, as much rubbish as the letter contained. His life was set indelibly in his father's mind – forget his mother, she was constantly drinking and pretending her precious life wasn't already in pieces – and Draco would have to obey, and grovel.

Hell no. He turned off the lights, and rested his gaze on the darker figure before him. He loved the anonymity, the fact that no name could follow that face. He made love to himself in that mirror, simply because it was a version of himself he did not detest. He could love no body and love all of him, because he did not exist. That was his fairytale.

* * *

Hermione sat dejectedly in her favorite corner of the library. It was a bit of a dark corner surrounded by books about the goblin wars (nobody ever read them - listening to Binns was bad enough). Usually the thought that she had an hour to spend in the library would have caused the girl to have palpitations in her excitement (she was generally considered odd by most people) but today was different. With another looming detention with the potions master on the horizon, poor Hermione just couldn't muster up her usual enthusiasm.

In fact she was so distraught that she put aside the essay that was due in two weeks and instead pulled out a book for her independent research. Normally Hermione would blanch at the thought of wasting time unless she was at least a month ahead on her work but she felt rather sorry for herself at the moment and decided to indulge in a bit of light reading.

The book only weighed around three stone. Considerably lighter than what she took to read in bed before falling asleep.

She put her hand under her chin and started reading.

_Paintings for wizards differ greatly from their muggle counterparts. In essence the consciousness of the individual is preserved on the canvas to lesser or greater degrees, depending on the painter. It has been theorized that if the painter and the subject are bonded in some fashion the degree of consciousness that the paintings gain increases exponentially. After coming to "life" as it were, the painting is able to converse with other paintings and with conscious people, ghosts, and sometimes animals. They are also able to move from frame to frame if they are invited by the residents of other paintings or if they themselves appear in more than one work. _

_The subjects of the paintings do not gain motor skills such as the ability to move from frame to frame and converse with others until the subject has died. Interestingly enough, if the painting is made after the subject is dead it will not ever gain consciousness. _

_The paintings dated from before the Goblin Revolution of 1375 seem to have less consciousness than those from more recent periods. Experts believe this to be because of the discovery of a portal to the Veil, a magical artifact that allows the living to cross over to the realm of the dead. There has been a lot of argument in various sects of the wizarding world as to the correlation between these two events but no solid theory has been developed at this time._

_Not much information has been obtained on the veil, considering its recent discovery and prompt appropriation by the Ministry of Magic. All that is known is that several individuals met their untimely end after approaching the veil and falling through._

Hermione closed her eyes. Untimely end. That's a nice way of saying dead as a doornail. Poor Sirius.

"Miss Granger," a voice broke her silent reverie. She immediately recognized the voice and inwardly squirmed. Outwardly she opened her eyes and stood up, brisk attention.

"Yes sir, can I help you with anything?" Hermione was thrilled that her voice remained calm. It was almost Slytherin of her.

Professor Snape raised a delicate brow and regarded her with a scowl. "I'm here to inform you that your detention tonight is cancelled."

Was that a wave of complete shock or happiness that went through her just now?

"Cancelled, sir? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Miss Granger," he replied in a somewhat bored tone - like he couldn't wait for this conversation to be over and he could be away from her mind-numbing presence.

"Oh. Well," she hesitated. "Do I need to make it up?"

"No, consider it cancelled indefinitely." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Miss Granger, there is a matter of importance I would like to discuss with you."

"Certainly, Professor." Hermione racked her brain quickly. Had she or the boys done anything recently that would have given Snape reason to try to expel her? She didn't think so, but knowing Snape he would probably just blame it on her regardless. She visibly steeled herself for the worst.

"The headmaster has informed me that I should choose from the student body an acceptable . . . assistant of sorts to facilitate extracurricular potions work on my behalf. Unfortunately the student body as a whole does afford many options from which I would normally select and thus I am left with only one viable option."

"Malfoy?" Hermione said without thinking.

"No." He looked annoyed. "That option is you. Would you be willing to take up an apprenticeship, Miss Granger?"

Hermione made some inarticulate noises which reminded Severus of an animal slowly being choked to death. He was immediately worried that he would have to perform that muggle action involving grabbing someone from behind and thrusting them up against your body. Dumbledore had forced the entire staff to learn the technique but for the life of him Severus couldn't recall exactly how it was to performed. Probably because his mind was very much stuck on the idea of having the young chit pressed up against him.

Therefore he was not paying attention when said chit literally pounced upon him. In an act of pure, unadulterated joy, she wrapped her arms around the dark man without really thinking, though there was a small voice in her head, which she liked to call her self preservation voice, which was frantically whispering something about how this was not her best impulsive idea ever.

Severus immediately stiffened in her embrace. He did not like to be touched, especially when he was least expecting it. Then again, how often had he dreamed of having her touch him in this manner, or in manners even more intimate?

However, now that she was touching him, of her own accord, he could only feel some sort of blissful stupor that left him completely speechless and oddly . . . content.

Hermione let him go and stepped back once the self-preservation voice became strong enough to invade her consciousness and inform her exactly what she was doing. Her face was slightly pink and she kept her eyes on the floor thus she missed the gentle, bemused expression that flittered across his.

"I'm sorry Professor Snape. I don't know what came over me. It's just . . . I've been hoping that I'd be offered an apprenticeship from one of the professors here. It would look fantastic on the transfer applications to a University," she finally looked up at him now, her face beaming with the excitement she couldn't contain even if she wasn't a Gryffindor and tried.

Luckily Snape managed to school his features back into casual indifference by this time.

"I'd be honored, sir," she said with quiet reverence.

"Good." He was inwardly swimming in delight, outwardly he drawled in a bored tone. "Come to my office at seven o'clock so that we can discuss scheduling. I think three or four times a week is sufficient?"

"That would be fine, sir."

Snape merely nodded and turned to walk away. He was only a few feet before he heard her voice calling him. A shiver of delight went up his spine every time she called him Professor. What he wouldn't do to have her call him by his first name - to hear her voice wrap around the syllables like silk.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" He didn't turn around.

She hesitated for a few seconds, as if choosing her words carefully. "I . . . that is . . . Thank you, Professor. For the opportunity."

"If you really want to thank me," he said, "You won't disappoint me."

* * *

Later that evening found Hermione doing exactly what she had been doing in detention; sitting in front of a cauldron mixing some tedious potion for the hospital wing. Slytherin was about to play Hufflepuff that weekend and Madam Pomfrey knew that she was going to need more than a few bottles of Pepper-Up Potion for Hufflepuff.

Still, now that she was there voluntarily and more than willing (she mentally drooled at the thought of writing _Apprenticed Under Severus Snape, Potions Master_ on her applications) her attitude was a complete one-eighty of what it was only yesterday.

Of course she could only daydream of the perfect application for so long before her mind wandered from that. She used a rod to carefully stir the cauldron and was pleased to note the faint red-brown color. The potion was coming along swimmingly. Of course, even Neville could have probably made this one without that much trouble (provided Snape wasn't in the room and Hermione was carefully guiding him). She rather wished she could be working on something like the Wolfsbane. Now that had been interesting, challenging even.

Hermione mentally shrugged. She'd probably get stuck doing a lot of drudge work. She sighed and glanced around the room. Snape was at his desk grading papers. She watched him as he scratched at the essays with a bored expression on his face. One of his hands was slowly massaging his temple while the other furiously crossed off entire sentences in red ink.

Hermione could not help the trail of her eyes. The seemed to be single-mindedly focused on his hands of all things. They were such long, pale and shapely tools. Boney, perhaps, but not weak as the word suggests. They were strong, gifted, even sensuous. They were the hands of a master, she thought a bit enviously. Her own hands were so small compared to his - both literally and metaphorically. She wondered what his hands had touched, the various weeds and animal intestines, whose hands he shook in his own, whose bodies allowed themselves to be under the direction of those powerful implements.

Hermione indulgently allowed her mind to wonder what his hands would feel like against her own. Would they be warm or cold? It was hard to say. His personality was aloof, stoic, harsh and authoritarian. But earlier that day, when she had given him that impromptu hug, his body had not been cold. Rather it had been warm (perhaps a little hot), and the material of his clothing soft against her skin. He had even smelled faintly of sandalwood - a welcoming scent.

She could not help the direction of her mind. She imagined his hands, warm and eager, caressing her lips, a cheek, her neck ( here she shivered), perhaps even moving to her breast where he would grip gently, worshiping the flesh as his mouth, hot and hungry and undeniable, found its way to the slight curve of her neck. Would he be rough on her tender flesh here? She wondered if his desire to mark her there, where the skin was most impressionable, would be overwhelming to him. Perhaps he would bite hard enough to leave imprints.

Where would he wish to touch her? Perhaps he would slide her body up against the dungeon walls, imprisoning her between a hard place and his body. Would he lift her, hands pressed on her ass and hitching up her school robes, or would he have ripped them off like the flimsy, obscuring fabric that it was? Then again, maybe he preferred the his desk, where he could climb on top of her, like an animal, like a man and his lover, as her body trembled under his presence.

Perhaps, she mused, he too might even tremble. How wonderful that would be, to see him, the untouchable stoic, squirming.

Her face grew red and she felt an uncomfortable wetness form between her legs as a graphic image of her musings played out in her mind's eye. Oh Merlin, she was having cliche' naughty school girl fantasies.

As Hermione was mentally berating herself for being utterly trite she completely missed Severus's quill twitch as his nostrils flared. He arched an eyebrow and took a surreptitious glance in Hermione's direction. She appeared to be thinking about something; he could tell by the way she furrowed her brow and bit her long-suffering bottom lip between her teeth. He wondered, a bit jealously, what it was that was causing such a . . . reaction in her. Certainly he would recognize that faint smell anywhere.

He was just about to make a comment, though as to what even he wasn't sure, when there was a slow rap at the door. Severus rolled his eyes, pleading heavenward that it was not the Headmaster.

"Enter."

The door silently opened. A lone figure, weather-worn and sickly, appeared in the doorway. His hair was graying more than usual, and his clothes looked even more patch-work than usual. At least, previously, he had given some attentions to his appearance. Not his hair was a mess of untamed locks that grew long enough to almost cover his eyes - and what eyes they tried to shadow. Haunted was the only word to accurately describe the shadows that traipsed passed, like clouds across the moon.

"Lupin," Snape sneered and stood from his desk. Ah, how could he have forgotten? It was that time of the month.

"Severus," replied the werewolf politely. He belatedly looked around the room and noticed Hermione sitting in front of a cauldron. He took a rather large breath of air and frowned, quickly looking between the girl and Snape. "Ah, Hermione. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, Professor Lupin. How are you feeling?" Hermione smiled. She had always been fond of the man.

"I've been better, I'm afraid."

Snape narrowed his eyes at the sign of familiarity between his student and his co-worker. "I agree, Lupin," said Snape with a glint of cruelty in his eyes. "I daresay you look positively . . . feral."

Lupin paled and chuckled awkwardly. Without his usual amount of flair Snape turned and went into his office to gather the finished Wolfsbane potion.

Hermione quickly added the last ingredient to her potion and put it on a simmer with her wand before getting up and walking to Remus.

"I'm sorry he said that," she said quietly, looking with compassion at the bedraggled man.

Remus chuckled. "Oh, don't apologize for him Hermione. He has his reasons." He gave the girl another funny look and sniffed, before bringing up a hand to rub his tired eyes. "How has Harry been, if you don't mind my asking?"

Hermione bit her bottom lip. "I don't know. Sometimes he's okay and sometimes he's . . . well he's not. There's only so much we can do for him." She turned her eyes to the man before her. "Perhaps you could see him more, Professor? I know he enjoys your classes. He always looks a little bit better before we go to them."

Remus looked pained and weary to such an extent that Hermione felt her heart tighten at the sight of it. Ah, she thought, this is helplessness.

It always had amused her, as a child, to name emotions and ideas when she saw them personified in people. Now that she was an older, it was an automatic response that often left her feeling disquieted.

"I would like to, Hermione, I would," he said slowly, measuring each word. "It's just that I . . . I can't. I - he, that is . . . his eyes are so much like -"

"Here's your potion," interrupted Severus as he slinked from his office, goblet in hand. He handed it to Remus who quickly drank it, grimacing.

"Tastes as bad as usual," he said, handing the goblet back.

"Forgive me for not slaving away to make it more palatable to your expensive tastes," snarked the potions master.

Remus, however, only sighed and thanked him. He wished them both a goodbye, though he found he couldn't quite look Hermione in the eye. Within a minute he was out the door in such a haste it was a wonder he had ever been there in the first place.

"Miss Granger," Severus snapped, causing the girl to jump and gaze at him wide-eyed. "You have a potion to be monitoring."

"Yes sir," she replied and scurried back to her cauldron.

* * *

"Will you just move the fucking chess piece, please?"

Harry was raising a delicate eyebrow to Ron, as if figuring the intimidation technique would send his opponent into making a disastrous move. If anything, however, it only made Ron look a little sick.

"Blimey, Harry," he shuddered. "You look like Snape when you do that."

Harry lightly lifted his glasses with his hand and rubbed his eyes with the other. "I'm not sure if that's the biggest insult you've ever said to me. At least my hair isn't weighed down by its own grease. See?" He pointed to the mop of mess on his head. "It goes out at crazy angles."

Ron gave him a small grin before turning his attention to the board. He still wasn't making a move.

"At this rate, I should have been having sex every night or early morning, but noooo, Voldy-poo fucked that up for me," groused Harry.

Ron moved his hand over a piece, as if he was about to make a move, but then he immediately retracted it and looked up to Harry, coughing. "Voldy. . . poo?"

Then, a few minutes later. "And sex? With who?"

A few more seconds later. "With Voldy-poo?!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "What? I thought he'd warm up to me and give up the prophesy-vendetta if I had a term of endearment for him, but it only made him shudder and leave. Mighty quickly." Harry paused, considering. "I think he thought I had a crush on him or something."

Ron didn't know what to say to that, really. He couldn't tell if Harry was being serious or not. In years past he might have carried the joke, but Harry was moody lately. Sometimes it was better to just leave well enough alone. With that in mind he grabbed a pawn and snagged one of Harry's that was getting a bit too close for comfort to his rook.

"Hey, I couldn't help it if that's what Aunt Petunia sometimes calls Dudley."

"Heh, Dudders," said Ron, making a drool face. "Hey," he said, lighting up as he did when an idea of particular worth strikes him. "Maybe Dudders and Voldy-poo will start seeing each other and leave you alone."

"Hah," said Harry. He knocked over one of Ron's pawns with his knight. "That would be the day. I'm not too sure Dudi-kins could tolerate that though. Who knows what Voldemort would do, like, tie him up or spank him..." Harry paused. "I don't think I like where this is going."

Ron grimaced.

"I don't know," said Harry. "I normally don't think about people. And sex. They never mix in my head."

Hermione chose that moment to pop up at Harry's side, dropping her rather heavy and worn bag at his feet. "We talked about sex with animals, Harry," she said. " And we decided it was a no-no." She plopped down onto the floor, making herself eye-level with the pieces.

"Very funny," said Harry with a faint trace of amusement that could be seen in the crinkling of his eyes, if one looked closely.

"Want to watch is play a bit of chess, Hermione?" said Ron as he moved a knight out of danger from Harry's queen.

"Don't you two have homework to do?" said Hermione with a particularly pointed glare in Harry's direction.

Harry rolled his eyes. He was doing that a lot lately. "I have been working, and now I have a headache, so I'm relieving stress." His bishop literally stomped on Ron's knight. "See? This is relaxing."

Ron blinked. "Bloody hell . . ."

Hermione put her hand on her hips. "It's not good for you to ignore your lectures, Harry. Especially Defense." She mellowed a bit. "Speaking of which. . ."

"I didn't ignore," said Harry. "Draco threw that paper airplane with a doodle of me being hexed by kittens."

Ron was perplexed. "Kittens? Is that inspiring fear?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Boys, so immature." She sure was a judgmental little thing.

Ron took another of Harry's pawns.

Hermione tried again. "Harry. . ."

"Hey!" said Harry, indignant. "I liked that one pawn. He liked beating your pieces senseless. It empowered him."

"Harry!" she was practically shouting, but the results were worth it. She had both of their attentions. "I saw Professor Lupin just now."

Harry's hand was hovering over a pawn, about to make another move when it stopped, mid motion. His face smoothly relaxed into a blank stare. "Oh? How is he?"

The image of nonchalance. Hermione ticked it off the emotion checklist in her head.

"Bad would be an understatement."

Ron jumped in. "He's been bad for awhile now."

"Yes," agreed Hermione. "Ever since Siri. . ." And at once she was mortified and afraid, her eyes dropping to her hands. She crinkled her face into a visible apology. Ron kept his eyes firmly on the chessboard.

"Yeah, I've noti-" Harry took in a soft breath, the room quiet. He stared as Ron started to fiddle with his hands, pointedly not looking in Hermione's direction somewhere to the side. He thought he might have heard her shift her weight onto another foot, the robes starchiness making sounds, but only barely registered it. He momentarily looked to the fireplace, its soft cackling louder now by comparison to the emptiness of speech in the quite common room.

'_And it's there that we last spoke, funny._' Finally, "did he say anything?"

Hermione bit her bottom lip. "He was getting his potion from Professor Snape for his. . . you know. And he asked after you. He wanted to know how you're doing." She was quiet a moment, before blurting out, "He looked like he was about to cry."

Ron just moved a chess piece. "Blimey. . ." he muttered.

Harry immediately felt bitter. Of course, just like them to talk behind his back, fuss over him when they couldn't even take care of one another. Slightly hypocritical...but this was Remus, who barely could glance at him in class, even when he thought Harry wasn't looking. Harry had carefully set himself to a corner of the class, sitting nearly at the edge so he could put his head down and view Remus without him realizing he was being studied the entire time. Maybe it was because he looked like James, but that had never stopped him from looking affectionately at Harry before. No, there was once that Sirius said they almost looked related with all that dark hair and pale skin, and maybe it was why Remus never looked his way ."Did the great bat give him any trouble? You know what he's like, how he likes to provoke people." Right, pick on someone else, let them take the blame. Snape could rot for all he cared, and he was much easier, more real, than all the guilt Harry felt.

Hermione was still chewing on her bottom lip. It was a surprise to many that it hadn't bled yet. "No, he was decent." She furrowed her eyes a bit, signaling the topic change. "I don't like to pry. . ."

Ron snorted.

"Shut. Up. Ronald." She turned to Harry. "But are you. . . have you been . . . are you okay?"

Harry eloquently raised an eyebrow in her direction, though when he thought about it, it probably held a resemblance to the Malfoy air of pride, far too close for Harry to like, but too late to change. They had been bickering more than usual lately, though doodles of being clawed to death wasn't the most of it. "Yes, I'm fine, we're playing chess in the common room like normal students do." She still looked worried, and he'd be damned if Hermione thought he didn't catch how she tried to cover for Snape. How bad was Remus? He still smiled when working with the first years. The only time he really did.

Of course Remus Lupin still smiled with the first years. In a lot of way he himself had never truly matured. He was a simpering child in the body of an adult monster who was still afraid of boggarts in the closet and under the bed. It was a release for him to be around younger children who reminded him of carefree days with Lily, James and, most of all, with Sirius

_She won't let you ignore her, she won't let you ignore her. Why can't I just ignore_

_her? _"Ron, did you go yet?"

"I'm thinking," said Ron, his hand hovering over the queen.

"You don't seem fine," said Hermione, quietly, barely above a whisper. The pity was unmistakable in her eyes.

"Don't pity me, Hermione. Don't. You don't know it, you don't know what it feels like. I said I was fine, I'm fine. Dammit, Ron, just put your piece there and you can check me." Abruptly and callously he picked up a piece and slamed it down on the black square. "I'm going to bed." Harry turned robes swishing past him, lightly making contact with Hermione, too fast for her to touch his arm in comfort.

Ron looked up suddenly, as if he had been in a trance this entire time. "Oh, nice going Hermione."

Exasperated, she threw her arms up in the air. " Someone has to say something, Ron. He can't keep pretending- we can't keep pretending that we don't notice that everyone is hurt, and emotionally not stable!" She huffed, her eyes refocusing after realizing what she had said, but it was true. Every word was true. They were all unstable, to some extent.

"Hermione, maybe you've been hitting the books too hard." He began to slowly put the chess pieces away in their perfectly segregated little nooks. "If Harry says he's fine then he's fine. Pushing him into talking when he doesn't want to isn't going to make him feel better." He gave Hermione a casual glance. "So how was detention with Snape?"

"Professor Snape," she corrected automatically.

Ron rolled his eyes. "I bet he kept you on your hands and knee's all day."

Her eyes widened at the double entendre - did he . . .had he just?- No, he was still looking down, maybe a little red around the ears, but Ronald Weasley would not have made an attempt at innuendo. Ever. And what would Professor Snape to do her if she were on her hands and knees . . .a flush formed on her already pink cheeks from having fought with Harry. This. could. Not. Be. Hermione held her breath, not even noticing as Ron looked hesitantly up at her.

"Cleaning cauldrons, right?" he prompted when she did not verbally respond.

Hermione gave a shaky laugh. "Hah, no." Quickly, she waved her right hand, swapping away the mental image and shaking her head. "No, he actually proposed that I work under his tutelage. I'd work on the wolfsbane, and under him in general as an apprentice. See," she smiled, a small one." " He's not all that bad." Upon seeing Ron's face and rapidly forming indignation she amended, "not all of the time."

"His apprentice?! You agreed to spend time with him? Willingly?!" He gave her a hard look. "Are you sure you're not imperio'd?"

"Ron," she glared. "Think of the opportunity! Where else can I learn as much as what the Professor has to offer? And don't think I didn't hear that. And . . . please don't tell Harry yet. I have a feeling . . .that it won't go very well with him." She wrung her hands in her black robes, hoping Ron would allow this one concession. He could only be in denial for so long.

Hermione sighed, giving the boys dormitories a fleeting glance. "Whatever are we going to do about him, Ron?" When Ron didn't answer, she implored, "This is serious! Maybe you should try talking to him, let him know you're there?"

"What do you mean it won't end well? We have a prophesy saying that we'll win? Why else would Voldy-poo fear it so much?"

Hermione didn't comment on the 'Voldy-poo.' Nor did she comment on his rash, mulish stubbornness. Perhaps it was all he had that kept him plodding along.

"I say," said Ron. "We just leave him alone and let him work out his problems. Alone. You can't keep pushing people like you do."

Hermione stood up and crossed her arms. "Fine, go on and pretend things are fine. Harry can't be so unstable and rash, so predicable. He'll stand no chance, Ron. We can't leave him like this, and I will make you all understand this, one way or another." She looked up, pleadingly. "Please, Ron, please talk to him."

Ron glared. "If you want someone to talk to him so badly, you do it."

Truth be told, Ron feared Harry when he was on the warpath. He seemed like a snake and a lion combined; he could pounce and tear, or he could flick away at someone's defenses until they were left with almost nothing. Ron didn't want that energy directed his way.

Hermione opened her mouth, snapped it shut, then opened it again before her body was able to catch up to her mind's commands. "Perfect, Ron. Just perfect. Go and run, I'll deal with Harry on my own. But mark my words. . ." Yet, there was nothing to say. No idle threat would make it clear how upset she was that no one would do anything to move beyond their self-induced stupor. "Fine," she huffed. "Just fine."

She left in the same mess of black robes that Harry had just moments before, so it seemed. Ron stared down at the open box of chess pieces, each lifeless and waiting to be picked up to resume their life, their game once more. Picking up the king, Ron eyed him closely, inspecting him, but for no reason.

"Bugger," he mouthed as he tossed the toy back without care.

* * *

a/n: Wow. We sure did go long with this one. Sorry for the ridiculous delay, our lives just are very hectic sometimes. We did talk about the story a lot, except most of the time it was trite fangirl screaming of how adorable we believe Severus/Hermione to be, or Draco/Harry. And then we come up with elaborate ways in which they can be together, none of them really plausible. People look at us strangely. Alas.

We own nothing! Please Read and Review, we'd really love to hear feedback on what you think so far.


	4. Chapter 4

a/n: We are sorry for the delay! We had lives, lives I tell thee! And now that we don't, we can write again! Or, well, Flowerpagoda can write at the moment, I'm bogged down in homework. Arg. Well, read and review please! Thanks!

Tearing the Veil

Chapter 4

Each hard knock on his bedroom door grated his nerves, with a barely imperceptible pause between them. _Will it never cease?_ he thought to himself, as he heard Hermione's constant prattle accompanied by bouts of yelling.

"Malfoy! Hurry up! We're going to be late for the meeting!" Her cries were obviously being ignored, which only caused her to huff and stomp her left foot, something Hermione barely ever stooped down to, but nonetheless here she was banging on one blonde prat's door. A pale and bloody proud prat at that. Today she particularly disliked anything with a strong 'p' sound, and Malfoy would receive every negative word she could muster that began with it.

"Honestly, what can you be doing in there?" Hermione exasperatedly exclaimed, the door still her only listener.

In the beginning of their forced relationship as head boy and girl the two had ignored one another, but after having to attend meeting after meeting and plan events, delegate orders, etc, the two had decided to talk on a semi-regular basis. They often degenerated into petty name calling, and sometimes into the cruel taunts of their childhood. After various trials, errors, and tears, the two formed an uneasy camaraderie where if one was upset the other would ignore them until order was restored. It worked, mostly, and allowed them to bait one another when spirits were high. After all, most of Draco's nastiness came out around Harry, and Hermione was generally an easy-going girl.

Draco rolled his eyes while furiously scratching over some parchment, his attention absorbed. He managed – and here he thought himself generous – to yell from within, still seated, "What damn meeting are you referring to?"

Through the door, Draco was sure a steady frown formed on Hermione's features, her eyebrows scrunched over her small nose, her stance akimbo. He could hear her muffled, frustrated growls while she said, "Did they not teach you manners at that priggish pureblood preparatory school? You can come to the door and speak to me."

He rolled his eyes, and finally pushed the chair back, crossing over to open the door. Meeting a glowering Hermione with a quirked eyebrow he quipped, "Yes, well, I expected as much from you, since you muggles know how to make a ruckus to gain attention. I prefer being sent notes in advance, Ms. Granger, not being bombarded with commands at my door. And what about this meeting?"

Hermione crossed her arms in front of her chest, "The," and she spitted the word, "_meeting_, Malfoy, is for the Halloween Ball we're supposed to be planning."

He leaned against the doorway, took a cursory look at her and drawled, "By the way, your hair looks extra frizzy today. I feel like lending you some hair product, Granger."

For a moment Hermione was completely distracted, puzzled at first by Draco's remark, and then affronted. "My hair? I'm sorry, Malfoy, I don't have hours and hours to waste away making my hair look immaculate. I, you see, have a life. While you have…" and here she cast a _Tempes_ spell, "…We're going to be so late!" She looked panicked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other anxiously.

"Oh. Right. It must have just slipped my mind," he said as he tossed his bangs lightly out of the way. "And I do have a life, Granger. I pay others not to have a life and do my hair for me, actually. See, I am the center of another's life; how many can say that about you?"

"You pay people to do your hair for you?" she asked incredulously, blinking several times in a vain attempt to process the information. Was he really that full of himself? Surely not. "Really Malfoy, there are many places I can go with that but somehow I imagine it stands alone."

He glared at her, the mocking tone he had before completely absent. "You will not insult my pristine image."

Hermione's shoulders started to quake, she bit her cheeks while turning progressively from her soft, rosy complexion to a deeper hue of the same color. She could hardly contain herself.

Draco gracefully pushed himself away from the door frame, and looked Hermione straight in the eye**. "**I will meet you downstairs in the Room of Requirement in five minutes, seeing as you so rudely interrupted me. And don't think I can't tell you're laughing there. I _am_ pristine. Have you ever seen anyone or anything as beautiful as me?" With that as his cue, he nodded and closed his door softly in her face, still keeping eye contact until his face was no longer visible.

Hermione shook her head, turned and began her ascent to the Room of Requirement, mumbling to herself, "I think humility itself has died."

* * *

The room had magically accommodated itself to house the small congregation of students that had trudged up from their rooms and other areas of the castle. Some of the students were mumbling as they shuffled in, complaints on their tongues at somehow being tricked or threatened. The others that had resigned to their fate sat around the conjured fireplace that Ron thought was absolutely necessary for playing exploding snap. Harry shook his head and smiled as he sat himself across from him to join in the game.

Hannah Abbot cleared her throat as she made her way in, and paused for emphasis after a few of the gathered turned to look at her. "I'm only here because they needed a representative from Hufflepuff and I drew the shorter straw," she said as she looked around waiting for a response.

Ron looked up, confused at the proffered information, stammered, "Uh, thanks Hannah, for that uh...update?" He poked Harry and whispered while leaning in, "What do I say to that, mate?"

Hannah continued as if though Ron had not spoken. "I just wanted everyone to know that."

Harry, looking back up to make sure the others were occupied, said in a serious tone that suggested previous experience in such matters, "Just don't make eye-contact and we should be okay."

Ron nodded, "That sounds wise. Do you always do that? No wonder you sometimes look spacey…"

"I don't look spacey. I am merely skilled in self-preservation," Harry retorted.

"Thank you, Hannah, but believe me, we weren't going to take any of your opinions seriously anyway," Draco drawled as he made his way into the Room of Requirement settling against the wall. Hannah sputtered, huffed and sat in one of the chairs, crossed her arms with the not-so-silent hope that the meeting would end quickly. Hermione made her way inside, as she had waited by the dungeons until Draco had finally decided to leave his room and attend his duties. She'd followed to make sure he didn't make any…unnecessary detours.

There had been that one time where the Head Boy and Girl were supposed to attend one of Dumbledore's boring speeches on House unity. Hermione had shown up, and, after waiting twenty minutes, had been sent out by a concerned Headmaster when Draco had failed to show. Hermione found him in their common room in what she could only describe as a very awkward position with Pansy. From that moment on, Hermione knocked before entering, and always made sure he was on time for events.

"Alright. Now that we're all settled and present, let's get down to business," Hermione said as she took a seat at the front.

"Oh yes, your grandness. You should really use some of my gel," Draco said as he made his way to one of the seats, grabbing an end of Hermione's hair, tossing it aside and finally sitting down with his legs crossed.

Hermione responded, in sotto voce, "Can I also borrow the scantily clad boy who puts the gel in your hair?"

Harry's attention was diverted to Hermione's comment, but couldn't figure out exactly what part of him made him start. He shook his head and mentally cursed himself.

Draco glared at her, deeply affronted. "You're not touching one of my house elves. We draw the line there, Granger, though considering we have several boundaries. This one is deeply personal."

Hermione's eyes lit up, Harry envisioning SPEW banners splayed on every wall and being forced to wear more _House Elf Liberation!_ buttons. He hoped Hermione would calm down.

Draco continued. "You may, however, borrow Pansy, if she doesn't attack and maul you first," his trademarked smirk spreading just so.

"Ew. That's all I have to say. Ew." Hermione turned her attention back to the room, barely full but at least hopefully enough to successfully plan the Halloween Ball. It was their duty, nay, a fundamental part of their lives at Hogwarts to plan this event well. Unfortunately, not many seemed to agree with her as she noticed that most had either brought homework or were busy daydreaming. _Merlin, life is not fair_, she grumbled mentally.

From somewhere in the depths of humanity, in the recesses of thoughts-that-are-not, a voice, a beacon came forth and spoke to not one person, but to all and to no one: "I've made a necklace out of light bulbs because it keeps away Snark-a-lumps with their innate brightness but they broke because they're fragile." And here Luna Lovegood paused, in deep thought, nearly trance-like. "Like friendship."

Pansy broke through Luna's moment, the dead quiet of the room slightly perturbing, glaring at Hermione. "I wouldn't be caught dead, or even as a corpse, would I be found in your company, Granger. Draco should know better than offering services he is not fit to give." She huffed, directing a meaningful look in Draco's direction, which was completely ignored. Draco acted as if he had not even heard her and looked down at his manicured nails.

Blaise spoke up, next to Pansy. "Bloody finally. Some of us have places to be." Pansy smarted him on the arm, though she didn't look too upset.

Draco shrugged and re-crossed his legs, drawling as he spoke, "So what is this about, Granger? I remember you ceaselessly babbling about something, but I kind of filtered it out."

Her eyebrow twitched as she testily replied, "Well, we're having the Halloween Ball and Professor Dumbledore wanted to bolster Inter-House unity…such that it is." She made a half-hearted gesture at the room which managed to encompass the fullness of apathetic individuals quite nicely.

"…And?" Draco raised his eyebrow, waiting for her to finish.

"You were at the meeting too, _Head Boy_."

"I never really listen to the old man, I mean, I can't distinguish his rubbish about lemon drops from actual conversation. I'm amazed how you can decipher any of it."

"The benefit of having a mind that can process words, no doubt," she quickly quipped.

Ron and Harry, cozy by the fire, began to softly whisper to one another, hoping to not attract Draco or Hermione's attention. Harry figured it was best if they went unnoticed; that way they would have to contribute less to the meeting. What was probably the third time that evening, Ron asked, "How did she drag us into this? Ugh, we should stop playing exploding snap, Hermione'll have a fit."

"I think she said she wouldn't revise our papers if we didn't go. And to save her from the ferret. Which we're doing a piss poor job of, honestly." Harry pointed to the other end of the circle where Hermione was gesticulating more than usual out of annoyance as Draco sat back feigning nonchalance.

Ron blinked. "Right, but she would have revised them anyway…wouldn't she have? I'm not sure I want her alone with the ferret anyway. Have you noticed they've been – " he leaned in closer to Harry, voice dropping, "_friendly_ with one another?"

"If by friendly you mean they have yet to rip out one another's throats, then yes," Harry said as he glanced over at Draco again, looking at him suspiciously. "Perhaps he's luring her into a false sense of security."

Ron frantically waved his hand in front of Harry's face, obstructing his view of Malfoy. "Stop being paranoid! You're doing it again! Though, you may have a point…" Ron glared again in Malfoy's direction, taking over Harry's previous efforts, thinking.

"You're right, Ron," Harry said as he began scribbling on a piece of paper.

Blaise yawned, patted his mouth arrogantly and addressed the Head Boy and Girl. "So, are we actually going to do anything or are we just going to watch you two take the piss all day?"

"And this is why you won't rise in Slytherin, Blaise. It's all about politics and banter." Draco sneered at him, then turned away brusquely. "Fine, let's start this meeting. And I am quite able to process information, Granger, but not babble. You do remarkably well in that area."

Hermione cleared her throat, peeved at being admonished, but slightly heartened by Draco's joking manner. _Not being able to process information, really._ She shook her head, finally pleased to get the meeting started. "Well, does anyone have any ideas?"

The gathered group of Pansy, Blaise, Ron, Harry, Draco, Luna, Hannah, and a few scattered others just looked at her blankly.

"Pirates," Luna immediately suggested.

Everyone turned to look at Luna, most faces sporting incredulous looks, not sure what to make of the strange, blonde girl. After an awkward pause, Hermione replied, "Let's put pirates in the maybe pile…"

Pansy immediately jumped in. "You have got to be kidding me. We are not taking suggestions from that," and here she pointed an accusing finger at Luna, "that _thing_." Pansy crossed her arms and slid further back into her chair.

Luna looked at Pansy, confused. "Oh, no. I'm actually a person. Blood and bones and all. But I can see where you would be confused." She looked up, a dreamy expression softening her already placid face.

"…What house is she in?" Pansy asked rhetorically. "Oh right, not Slytherin. No, you don't exist, dear."

"If a Slytherin falls in the forest and a Gryffindor hears, does the Slytherin really exist?" Luna parried, still obviously enmeshed in her own world.

"OKAY. ENOUGH." Hermione stood up and glared at both sides.

Harry kept scribbling on his parchment, and Ron poked him as he looked

onward. "Harry, what is that thing? Are those…stink lines?" The note – which back in its birth, was once a fine, white sheet – was now riddled with squiggly lines. These lines, if one looked hard enough (for Harry was no great artist) showed a picture of Hogwarts' very own Head Boy being pecked to death by a Hippogriff.

"Don't become an art critic, Ron, whatever you do in life," Harry said as he furtively tossed the folded parchment at Draco. Draco continued to inspect his nails.

"No, I think I'd leave that to Hermione. Leave it to her to find imperfection in anything. Like my essays," Ron replied, sullenly.

"Fine, pirates, whatever. I want…what the hell?" The paper had landed on Draco's lap and, when he finally noticed something beyond his cuticles, occupied himself with trying to open the damn thing. _Who the hell folds paper so poorly, for Merlin's sake? Doesn't everyone have classes in origami?_

"Oh!" Hermione jumped up in her seat. "I have a perfect idea. Why don't we have a Peter Pan theme? There's lots of things to choose from. Pirates. The Lost Boys, the Indians, Merpeople and a lot more."

Luna smiled. "I said Pirates."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "You sure did, Lovegood."

"Did you now?" Draco asked, sounding amused. As a child he had read the works of J.M. Barrie, as the man had been a wizard and Lucius had felt it taught children a valuable lesson – Muggles will believe anything; they were that gullible.

Draco discreetly began to open the folded paper, and smirked as he saw the awful rendition of himself. He moved his hand and conjured a quill, surreptitiously scribbling on the parchment. "Oh, then I call Peter. Yes, I'll lead you all."

Harry jabbed Ron with his elbow and said in a whisper meant to project, "Right off of the astronomy tower."

Draco eyed Harry. "I think only you would be stupid enough to follow me right off, Potter." Ron's mouth was agape, not sure how to respond to the statement, finding too much truth to rebuttal.

"I think I should be Peter," said Harry. "I have the better body for an outfit of leaves."

Hermione sat cradling her head in her hands. It had been going so well for a few minutes.

"Potter, what on earth makes you think that any living person, with eyes mind you, would want to see your scrawny limbs sticking out from a bed of leaves around your crotch? No, no, we need someone with presence, leadership and breeding to carry this all off." Draco ran a hand through his immaculate hair. "Clearly this writes you off the list. Besides, I called it first."

"Oh, that's really mature," Harry quipped.

Draco smiled as he folded the now forgotten parchment into a paper airplane and chucked it at Harry's forehead. "There you go, scarface."

Harry caught the airplane before it collided right before his face. "And everyone has seen your scrawny limbs, not to mention the area of your crotch. Don't you think the school is tired of the same old show? Familiarity breeds contempt and all that."

Draco scoffed. "Please, any person would beg to see this crotch again. In fact, several people have done so, several times, on their knees. And they remained so for some time after. But I digress. We can't go and taint our sacrosanct Hero image of you, now, can we?"

Blaise scuttered over closer to Pansy, leaning his head in carefully to not be overheard. "I think they're much too obsessed with each other's genitals, if you take my meaning." A few seats away, Hannah Abbot sat rigidly straight, looking scandalized.

Pansy whispered back, "I'd disagree with you if I weren't here watching this entire thing. Are they…flirting?"

Blaise shrugged slightly. "I would imagine so, except both of them are heterosexual."

Hermione overheard and couldn't help but laugh derisively, only to immediately have Pansy's attention. She looked at Hermoine with an inquisitive look on her face. _I can see the gears turning_, Hermione thought.

Ron had finally managed to close his mouth, attempting to catch up with the several minutes that had sped by and left him behind. He poked Hermione. "What are you laughing at?"

Harry, deciding it was time to see what horrid things Draco had concocted with his quill, undid the paper airplane and silently inhaled. Just as quickly, a coy, innocent smiled passed across his face. Paper-Draco had been rearranged to look like Harry, a much better likeness than his feeble attempt at the Malfoy heir – not that he'd admit that aloud – and the hippogriff had become the Slytherin Prince himself riding him. "Now, now Malfoy. The only time you'd be on top is on paper."

Ginny, who had walked in late and sat next to Hannah, glowered. "What on earth is going on here? Weren't we supposed to talk about the Halloween Ball?"

Harry ignored her. "I'll tell you what, Malfoy. Let's make a little wager. If you win, you can go as Peter Pan. If I win, I go as Peter Pan, but you'll have to go as…as…the fairy."

Hermione, voice small, barely believing where the conversation was going, asked, "Tinker bell?"

Luna spoke up again: "I want to be Captain Hook."

"The fairy. The green little thing that runs around in a tutu? Fine. But believe me you, you will be wearing tights that night, Potter, and I will laugh gloriously in your face." Draco crossed his arms and smiled triumphantly. "Pick your undoing, Potter."

Pansy leaned in again to Blaise, her hand covering her mouth. "Why do I feel that they are enjoying this far too much?"

"Because they _are_," Blaise replied.

"Oh no, Malfoy. No tights. You'll shave those scrawny legs of yours." Harry commanded.

Malfoy raised both his eyebrows nearly to his hairline. "Oh nono, you what? Are you going to be waxing those chicken legs of yours?"

"Only if I lose. Which I won't. You can't have stubble for this, you know."

"Hah, why not accept your fate as the fairy and be done with it? I obviously carry the twig and berries around here."

Hermione couldn't help it and burst out laughing. "Oh. Dear. Merlin. What does that even mean?"

Draco stared at her incredulously, "What do you think it means? I'm not giving out free anatomy lessons today, Granger. Catch me in a better mood."

"Ew. Again. Thank you for that, Draco, I really appreciated it," Hermione said, looking slightly disgusted.

Pansy, exasperated, rolled her eyes and huffed, "What about this meeting? What of the planning? I need to know what kind of candles and tablecloths to order for this!" But Harry and Draco paid no attention to her complaints, or to the purpose of the meeting, in general.

"You always lose to me, Malfoy. In Quidditch, The House Cup, even the fact that I'm the boy-who-lived and you're just another rich prat. History has a habit of repeating itself, so I'm going to win. The bet should be…" he stuttered, upset that he couldn't come up with something on the spot. They couldn't race outside in potato sacks, or anything of the sort. That was rather absurd, and he wasn't about to let Malfoy know that his best idea consisted of some muggle sport that children played.

"Stop stalling and pick something," Draco snapped, peeved that Potter would dare to bring up such things. They were all slights, slights on his character and how he still could not please his father, was still behind in all of his expectations. "The old coot makes sure you win the Housecup, so don't get all boastful about that. And I'm not sure I'd want a delusional, deranged man as my mentor to begin with."

Harry ignored any mention of Dumbledore. "We'll do something easy. Catch the snitch at midnight. Quidditch pitch, tonight, that is, if you can sneak around Snape. We'll let it go, have a few witnesses. Just like first year."

Blaise shook his head, still trying to follow how a conversation about a party ball could twist itself into a pissing match between Harry and Draco. But then again, they were always at it. "What is this Peter Pan? It has to be some muggle thing."

Pansy played with a curl, still watching the pale blonde and brunette as they made plans and threats. "Yes, probably," she sighed. "I can't believe we're going to do this. My plans are ruined. This is the antithesis of any Slytherin party. I demand the tablecloths and the lining of the goblets be green to compensate for this embarrassment." She was utterly annoyed with Draco. He _never_ stooped to this kind of thing. At least, he usually had more finesse about it.

Hermione raised her quill, clipboard and parchment on her lap. "Green tablecloths, check." She had apparently been taking notes the entire time, despite the frequent interruptions.

"You're on, Potter. It'll be you, Granger, Blaise and me. We need a representative from each of our houses to make it fair."

"Need I remind you the consequences for a head boy and the captain of the Quidditch team for getting caught past curfew is a big one." Hermione interjected.

"Oh shut it, Granger," Draco snapped. "How many rules have you broken for those two blunderheads the past six years?"

"That are on my record? None." Hermione smiled at him, and batted her eyelashes. "And secondly, I'm not playing this game. If you two want to play who has the bigger broomstick you can do it during school hours."

Ron nodded, solemnly, as if his words and decision carried great weight. "I'll go. I want to see you pulverize him, Harry!" He thrusted his right arm into the air, crouching down in a defensive stance. Harry tilted his head to one side just finally realizing that others had been in the room and privy to the entire exchange.

"_These_ don't have to be on your record, either. Use that brain of yours we know you have under all that fluff," Draco protested, still trying to get his way.

Hermione crossed her arms, clipboard in hand, and shook her head obstinately. "I have to study. I'm not going and that's that."

Draco sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose with his right hand, conceding. "Fine, we'll take the red head - scratch that, he's awfully biased and would skew the results. No." He shook his head. "It'll have to be you, Granger. And Zabini."

Blaise looked startled from his chair, no longer reclining lazily against it. He stammered, "But…I…tonight…with the sixth year Ravenclaw..I…" He hung his head, dismayed. "Ugh."

"Reschedule it," Draco answered, completely unfazed and undeterred. "You can get her some other time. This is far more important.

"No it isn't," Blaise grumbled. This sixth year had been particularly hard to woo. Something about feminism and being her own woman who didn't need to be defined by a man and some other crap that Blaise had generally tuned out. He had finally gotten her to agree to a late night tussle, and now he'd have to somehow reschedule that. Usually he wouldn't, but house politics stated that if the Prince of Slytherin wanted something, the Prince got it. After all, Draco's father could be a right manipulative bastard when he wanted to be.

"I'm not going," said Granger, in a tone which brooked no argument.

"Ugh, fine. Granger, you're off the hook. But I demand an oath from you, Weasel. And Blaise, my image rests on this. Of course it's more important." Draco slightly adjusted his shoulders. _Let them dare contradict me,_ he thought.

"A Slytherin asking honesty from a Gryffindor? That's rich," Ron snorted, hunched over and gave Harry's shoulder a soft smack, certain his brooding friend agreed.

"GODS!" exclaimed Hermione. If they weren't going to talk about the darn Halloween ball, then she certainly was going to move the pissing contest along so she wouldn't have to listen anymore. "Alright, Ron, Blaise, come here and kneel." Hermione shook her head in frustration, pointedly ignoring Draco's authoritative demeanor and the general smirk of content he had.

"I can get nearly anything I want, Weasel and don't you forget it," Draco called after him as Granger had both Ron and Blaise kneel in the center of the chairs, right before the fireplace.

From his position on the floor, Blaise stared around him, mumbling, "I don't like where this is going…"

"Blaise, just do it! We got our tablecloths!" Pansy cried from her seat, the obvious only high point in the entire meeting.

Ron glared at Blaise while Blaise gave him a blank stare.

Hermione cleared her throat, again, which felt like the thirtieth time that evening. "Right, touch the tip of your wand to the other. Now, do you solemnly swear to watch this snitch match and give the results fairly, even if your side does not win?"

Ron sighed, "I suppose."

Blaise managed to shrug, "Sure."

Bright light emitted from both the tips of the wands, blue and gold, that entwined and finally rose up to disperse themselves – and thus the spell – over both boys.

Draco rolled his eyes, finally happy that the procession was over. "Now that that's settled, the Quidditch field at eleven, gentlemen. And Blaise," he raised a delicate eyebrow, "do not be late. I cannot stand impunctuality, and Potter is always running to classes."

Harry piped up, "Oh you notice, do you?" Part of him found it thrilling that he had captured the blonde's attention. His more suspicious and paranoid tendencies whispered that Malfoy's intentions weren't known, and best to be alert.

"As the professor yells and humiliates you in class, yes, I do notice that, as does everyone else. I find it rather funny, actually."

Hermione had enough. "Meeting adjourned." She spread her arms out, still holding her clipboard, directing her woebegone flock out the doors. "Please leave."

"Oh thank the gods," Pansy exclaimed. She stood and grabbed Blaise by the arm. "We're _leaving_. Now."

Harry scoffed at Draco's remark, despite the fact that he could feel his cheeks burn a soft crimson. "Seems you pay just a bit too much attention to me, Ferret."

Around them, Ginny, Luna and Hannah shuffled off, Luna's odd, dreamy voice echoing off the walls in the corridor. "I'm a pirate!" she said, enthusiastically to a morose Ginny. The ginger-haired girl offered her friend a small smile, and headed off to the Gryffindor common room. She turned around before completely leaving, asking shyly, "I'll see you all later?" Hermione nodded, and tried to push Harry and Draco along.

Draco continued to spar verbally, unable to desist from any argument, especially not with Potter, and disregarded Granger's commands to leave. "When Snape yells at you, who can't help but notice? Besides, who can't help but notice how red you become? You're your own beacon. That's nothing to do with me, but your own recklessness."

When the two bickering boys had taken their leave, Ron saddled up by Hermione, taking note of her exasperated expression.

Hermione leaned against the wall and exhaled heavily, "Well, that was a disaster."

Ron joined Hermione by the wall, so close their shoulders were touching. It did not pass Hermione's attention. "You know," Ron started, licking his lips, "Harry hardly paid any attention to Ginny at that meeting. I thought they might have had something? And, he's over Cho Chang and all." Ron looked down and scuffed his black loafers against the stone floor.

"What?" Hermione blinked. Then blinked again. "Ron, he's…can't you tell?"

"What? Can't tell what? Moody? Well, yes, but I was hoping he'd get over that. He's kind of quiet too sometimes…I thought Ginny being so outgoing would be good for him."

Hermione glanced around, hoping she was surreptitious and made sure no one else was within hearing distance. "Ron, Harry's gay. And not just semi-interested gay. He's queerer than Santa with his elves."

Ron was nodding and then stopped. "Wait, what? Santa's a poof?"

"Only the biggest," Hermione smirked.

"Harry's not gay…he liked Cho! He uh. He. Right. Well, he's liked girls before," he attempted weakly. "Sure, he's a lonesome bloke, but not…gay." He stood up straighter against the wall. "How do you know? He doesn't do the hand thing like Draco does. Hell, he doesn't even care about his hair!"

Hermione sniffed, slightly affronted. "I mean he practically wore a rainbow."

"When!? He never wears any colors!" Ron hollered, noticed his statement and felt it was necessary to add: "Not that I notice that kind of thing, but Harry dresses blandly."

"You don't have to be interested in your hair to be gay, Ron! That's a stereotype you're propagating! And I know because I have _eyes_, Ron." Here, Hermione leaned her head back, thinking. "I bet you ten galleons he's gay."

"I told you about those big words, Hermione, and I don't have that kind of money!"

"One galleon then." She wanted to win this, and knew she would. It was all worth investigating.

"I feel kind of bad we're doing this behind Harry's back…but fine. How are we going to find out for sure, though? I can't ask him, 'Hey mate! Are you a poof?'"

"I'm sure it'll come up again," Hermione said confidently. "And when he does come out, I'll be one galleon richer, thanks to your supreme homophobia."

Ron frowned. "He's not coming out because he's not gay. And I'm not a homophobe. It's just…this is Harry. He's too busy to have a girlfriend, that's all." He turned to look at her, and saw the victorious gleam in her eye.

"If he's not gay, Malfoy isn't a prat."

"But you can't do that!" Ron replied indignantly. "Malfoy is always a prat! That is a constant! Harry's just not right in the head right now."

"Oh yes, where does he find the time between not paying attention in class, not doing homework, and feeling sorry for himself?" Hermione parried, as she pushed herself off the wall in frustration and placed her arms akimbo.

"You can't place a constant with an unknown!" Ron rattled on. "You can't compare a bishop that moves diagonally to a queen that moves in any which way!"

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"And don't make a comment about the queen bit!" Ron said heatedly.

"I don't…we had this discussion about chess metaphors, Ron. Haven't you considered playing a different game?"

"I like chess. Look, Hermione, let's not make it harder for Harry, alright?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and mumbled under her breath, "Harder than he is for Malfoy?"

"We'll wait and see what he ends up doing. …He wasn't _hard_ or anything! He was just fighting with Malfoy, like always. Stop making it sound so…certain."

"Yes," Hermione retorted, "and the sexual undercurrent was imagined."

"What undercurrent? Pansy was the only one talking about tablecloths."

"I…I…Oh dear Merlin." Hermione shook her head, curls and frizz swaying about her shoulders. "You make me hurt somewhere deep down, Ron."

"Oh. Um, right."

"I'm going to go do some homework."

"Talk to you later, then, Hermione." Ron stopped talking and looked down, then back up at her. "Hermione? I'm confused."

"It's okay. I might be as well. Have fun at the thing tonight. Try not to get caught." She gave Ron a small smile, waved, and headed back to the dormitories, leaving Ron behind to find some way to amuse himself before the planned match.

* * *

Hermione made her way into the dungeons as she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She really did not approve of the boys having it out on the Quidditch pitch. Why couldn't they solve their problems like rational individuals, using their words instead of their egos?

Then again, she reasoned, maybe it will do Harry some good to let off some of that sexual tension. Honestly, his obvious attraction to Malfoy was getting ridiculous.

She quietly entered the potions classroom and was shocked to see that Professor Snape was not present. Highly odd, she thought. He was usually sitting behind his desk grading papers or standing over a cauldron. She vaguely wondered if she should leave but reasoned that he would probably be back soon.

There were a lot of papers lying haphazardly on his desk. It was a direct contrast to everything else in the room, all neatly organized, labeled and in the correct spot. Hermione guess that Snape had simply walked out of the room to retrieve something. He wouldn't ever leave his desk in such disarray.

Being the absolute nosey pest that she was, however, she could not contain her curiosity and crept over to the large, wooden desk. She figured she'd just have a brief glance at what he had been working so hard on these past weeks. Professor Snape was a man she very much respected and so she did feel a twinge of guilt at spying on his papers when he wasn't about. Then again, she had hung around with Harry and Ron for a great many years, and they had no conception of privacy whatsoever.

She really only meant to take a peek but the first words she saw drew her in like the proverbial moth to the flame. Any sort of rational concern she may have harbored about not getting caught disappeared as she perused the papers.

_Unlike the process for creating a horcrux the "soul-displacement" charm is relatively simpler and does not require that the soul be permanently split from its host. Nor does it require a sacrificial victim. The split soul should be able to return to its other half after traipsing through The Veil or any other non human realm. However, while this has worked in theory and is arithmetically sound, be warned that it has never been successfully done. The two halves of the soul should be able to rejoin one another without any lasting detriments, in theory. In practice there has been irrevocable changes, what is known as "cuts" on the soul which, in some cases, have been so severe that the two halves no longer mesh. _

_The problem seems to stem from the lack of vessel for holding one half of the soul in our realm. Various objects have been charmed, such as goblets and boxes, to living beings such as animals and plants. None of these have successfully held a soul for longer than five minutes before the soul begins to deteriorate at an exponential rate. _

_The soul cannot remain in its body either since the body must be placed under a stasis charm. The soul is unaffected by meager magics and deteriorates in that hold as well._

_Hope this helps somewhat._

_-Delilah_

Hermione recognized Snape's spidery scrawl in the margin.

_Possible solutions: either an object that can successfully house half of a soul without deteriorating (of which none come to mind – perhaps a pensieve?) or _

Hermione never did get to find out what else her professor imagined would be useful, because a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. She was roughly turned around. In shock she let out a frightened yip and was further terrified to be looking into the face of her potions master.

While Severus Snape did not usually show what he was feeling, Hermione could easily recognize the rage in his eyes. It was tainted by something else, she could see, but had no time to analyze it because he looked like he was about to strangle her at any moment.

After a few moments of agonizing silence she almost pissed herself when he finally spoke.

"How much did you read?"


End file.
